Part 6

Superstites Rosae

The grass is green upon her grave, The west wind whispers low; "The corn is changed, come forth, come forth, Ere all the blossoms go!"

In vain. Her laughing eyes are sealed, And cold her sunny brow; Last year she smiled upon the flowers -- They smile above her now!

Soul Ferry

High and dry upon the shingle lies the fisher's boat to-night; From his roof-beam dankly drooping, raying phosphorescent light, Spectral in its pale-blue splendour, hangs his heap of scaly nets, And the fisher, lapt in slumber, surge and seine alike forgets.

Hark! there comes a sudden knocking, and the fisher starts from sleep, As a hollow voice and ghostly bids him once more seek the deep; Wearily across his shoulder flingeth he the ashen oar, And upon the beach descending finds a skiff beside the shore.

'Tis not his, but he must enter -- rocking on the waters dim, Awful in their hidden presence, who are they that wait for him? Who are they that sit so silent, as he pulleth from the land -- Nothing heard save rumbling rowlock, wave soft-breaking on the sand?

Chill adown the tossing channel blows the wailing, wand'ring breeze, Lonely in the murky midnight, mutt'ring mournful memories, -- Summer lands where once it brooded, wrecks that widows' hearts have wrung -- Swift the dreary boat flies onwards, spray, like rain, around it flung.

On a pebbled strand it grateth, ghastly cliffs around it loom, Thin and melancholy voices faintly murmur through the gloom; Voices only, lipless voices, and the fisherman turns pale, As the mother greets her children, sisters landing brothers hail.

Lightened of its unseen burden, cork-like rides the rocking bark, Fast the fisherman flies homewards o'er the billows deep and dark; THAT boat needs no mortal's mooring -- sad at heart he seeks his bed, For his life henceforth is clouded -- he hath piloted the Dead!

Sir Henry Parkes.

The Buried Chief

(November 6th, 1886)

With speechless lips and solemn tread They brought the Lawyer-Statesman home: They laid him with the gather'd dead, Where rich and poor like brothers come.

How bravely did the stripling climb, From step to step the rugged hill: His gaze thro' that benighted time Fix'd on the far-off beacon still.

He faced the storm that o'er him burst, With pride to match the proudest born: He bore unblench'd Detraction's worst, -- Paid blow for blow, and scorn for scorn.

He scaled the summit while the sun Yet shone upon his conquer'd track: Nor falter'd till the goal was won, Nor struggling upward, once look'd back.

But what avails the "pride of place", Or winged chariot rolling past? He heeds not now who wins the race, Alike to him the first or last.

Thomas Alexander Browne (`Rolf Boldrewood').

Perdita

She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair And eyes that are stormy with fitful light, The delicate hues of brow and cheek Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright; That matchless frame yet holds at bay The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.

There is no fear in her great dark eyes -- No hope, no love, no care, Stately and proud she looks around With a fierce, defiant stare; Wild words deform her reckless speech, Her laugh has a sadness tears never reach.

Whom should she fear on earth? Can Fate One direr torment lend To her few little years of glitter and gloom With the sad old story to end When the spectres of Loneliness, Want and Pain Shall arise one night with Death in their train?

. . . . .

I see in a vision a woman like her Trip down an orchard slope, With rosy prattlers that shout a name In tones of rapture and hope; While the yeoman, gazing at children and wife, Thanks God for the pride and joy of his life.

. . . . .

Whose conscience is heavy with this dark guilt? Who pays at the final day For a wasted body, a murdered soul, And how shall he answer, I say, For her outlawed years, her early doom, And despair -- despair -- beyond the tomb?

Adam Lindsay Gordon.