Part 33

The colours of the setting sun Withdrew across the Western land -- He raised the sliprails, one by one, And shot them home with trembling hand; Her brown hands clung -- her face grew pale -- Ah! quivering chin and eyes that brim! -- One quick, fierce kiss across the rail, And, "Good-bye, Mary!" "Good-bye, Jim!" ~Oh, he rides hard to race the pain Who rides from love, who rides from home; But he rides slowly home again, Whose heart has learnt to love and roam.~

A hand upon the horse's mane, And one foot in the stirrup set, And, stooping back to kiss again, With "Good-bye, Mary! don't you fret! When I come back" -- he laughed for her -- "We do not know how soon 'twill be; I'll whistle as I round the spur -- You let the sliprails down for me."

She gasped for sudden loss of hope, As, with a backward wave to her, He cantered down the grassy slope And swiftly round the dark'ning spur. Black-pencilled panels standing high, And darkness fading into stars, And blurring fast against the sky, A faint white form beside the bars.

And often at the set of sun, In winter bleak and summer brown, She'd steal across the little run, And shyly let the sliprails down. And listen there when darkness shut The nearer spur in silence deep; And when they called her from the hut Steal home and cry herself to sleep.

. . . . .

~And he rides hard to dull the pain Who rides from one that loves him best; And he rides slowly back again, Whose restless heart must rove for rest.~

Arthur Albert Dawson Bayldon.

Sunset

The weary wind is slumbering on the wing: Leaping from out meek twilight's purpling blue Burns the proud star of eve as though it knew It was the big king jewel quivering On the black turban of advancing night. In the dim west the soldiers of the sun Strike all their royal colours one by one, Reluctantly surrender every height.

The Sea

Ere Greece soared, showering sovranties of light, Ere Rome shook earth with her tremendous tread, Ere yon blue-feasting sun-god burst blood-red, Beneath thee slept thy prodigy, O Night! Aeons have ta'en like dreams their strange, slow flight, And vastest, tiniest, creatures paved her bed, E'en cities sapped by the usurping spread Of her imperious waves have sunk from sight Since she first chanted her colossal psalms That swell and sink beneath the listening stars; Oft, as with myriad drums beating to arms, She thunders out the grandeur of her wars; Then shifts through moaning moods her wizard charms Of slow flutes and caressing, gay guitars.

To Poesy

These vessels of verse, O Great Goddess, are filled with invisible tears, With the sobs and sweat of my spirit and her desolate brooding for years; See, I lay them -- not on thine altar, for they are unpolished and plain, Not rounded enough by the potter, too much burnt in the furnace of pain; But here in the dust, in the shadow, with a sudden wild leap of the heart I kneel to tenderly kiss them, then in silence arise to depart.

I linger awhile at the portal with the light of the crimsoning sun On my wreathless brow bearing the badges of battles I've fought in not won. At the sound of the trumpet I've ever been found in thy thin fighting line, And the weapons I've secretly sharpened have flashed in defence of thy shrine. I've recked not of failure and losses, nor shrunk from the soilure of strife For thy magical glamour was on me and art is the moonlight of life.

I move from the threshold, Great Goddess, with steps meditative and slow; Night steals like a dream to the landscape and slips like a pall o'er its glow. I carry no lamp in my bosom and dwindling in gloom is the track, No token of man's recognition to prompt me to ever turn back. I strike eastward to meet the great day-dawn with the soul of my soul by my side, My goal though unknown is assured me, and the planet of Love is my guide.

Jennings Carmichael.

An Old Bush Road

Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Barred with shadow and with sunshine, Misty vistas drawn between. Grim, scarred bluegums ranged austerely, Lifting blackened columns each To the large, fair fields of azure, Stretching ever out of reach.

See the hardy bracken growing Round the fallen limbs of trees; And the sharp reeds from the marshes, Washed across the flooded leas; And the olive rushes, leaning All their pointed spears to cast Slender shadows on the roadway, While the faint, slow wind creeps past.

Ancient ruts grown round with grasses, Soft old hollows filled with rain; Rough, gnarled roots all twisting queerly, Dark with many a weather-stain. Lichens moist upon the fences, Twiners close against the logs; Yellow fungus in the thickets, Vivid mosses in the bogs.

Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, What delights in thee I find! Subtle charm and tender fancy, Like a fragrance in the mind. Thy old ways have set me dreaming, And out-lived illusions rise, And the soft leaves of the landscape Open on my thoughtful eyes.

See the clump of wattles, standing Dead and sapless on the rise; When their boughs were full of beauty, Even to uncaring eyes, I was ever first to rifle The soft branches of their store. O the golden wealth of blossom I shall gather there no more!

Now we reach the dun morasses, Where the red moss used to grow, Ruby-bright upon the water, Floating on the weeds below. Once the swan and wild-fowl glided By those sedges, green and tall; Here the booming bitterns nested; Here we heard the curlews call.

Climb this hill and we have rambled To the last turn of the way; Here is where the bell-birds tinkled Fairy chimes for me all day. These were bells that never wearied, Swung by ringers on the wing; List! the elfin strains are waking, Memory sets the bells a-ring!

Dear old road, no wonder, surely, That I love thee like a friend! And I grieve to think how surely All thy loveliness will end. For thy simple charm is passing, And the turmoil of the street Soon will mar thy sylvan silence With the tramp of careless feet.

And for this I look more fondly On the sunny landscape, seen From the road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Something still remains of Nature, Thoughts of other days to bring: -- For the staunch old trees are standing, And I hear the wild birds sing!

A Woman's Mood

I think to-night I could bear it all, Even the arrow that cleft the core, -- Could I wait again for your swift footfall, And your sunny face coming in at the door. With the old frank look and the gay young smile, And the ring of the words you used to say; I could almost deem the pain worth while, To greet you again in the olden way!