Part 15 (2/2)

The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes, That chimes through the pauses and hushes Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes, The tempests that rave.

In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples The dusk of the sky, With streaks like the redd'ning of apples, The ripening of rye.

To eastward, when cl.u.s.ter by cl.u.s.ter, Dim stars and dull planets that muster, Wax wan in a world of white l.u.s.tre That spreads far and high.

In the gathering of night gloom o'erhead, in The still silent change, All fire-flushed when forest trees redden On slopes of the range.

When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks Eucalyptian Seem carved, like weird columns Egyptian, With curious device--quaint inscription, And hieroglyph strange.

In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles 'Twixt shadow and s.h.i.+ne, When each dew-laden air draught resembles A long draught of wine; When the sky-line's blue burnish'd resistance Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, Some song in all hearts hath existence,-- Such songs have been mine.

They came in all guises, some vivid To clasp and to keep; Some sudden and swift as the livid Blue thunder-flame's leap.

This swept through the first breath of clover With memories renew'd to the rover-- That flash'd while the black horse turn'd over Before the long sleep.

To you (having cunning to colour A page with your pen, That through dull days, and nights even duller, Long years ago ten, Fair pictures in fever afforded)-- I send these rude staves, roughly worded By one in whose brain stands recorded As clear now as then,

”The great rush of grey 'Northern water', The green ridge of bank, The 'sorrel' with curved sweep of quarter Curl'd close to clean flank, The Royalist saddlefast squarely, And where the bright uplands stretch fairly, Behind, beyond pistol-shot barely, The Roundheaded rank.

”A long launch, with clinging of muscles, And clenching of teeth!

The loose doublet ripples and rustles!

The swirl shoots beneath!”

Enough. In return for your garland-- In lieu of the flowers from your far land-- Take wild growth of dreamland or starland, Take weeds for your wreath.

Yet rhyme had not fail'd me for reason, Nor reason for rhyme, Sweet Song! had I sought you in season, And found you in time.

You beckon in your bright beauty yonder, And I, waxing fainter, yet fonder, Now weary too soon when I wander-- Now fall when I climb.

It matters but little in the long run, The weak have some right-- Some share in the race that the strong run, The fight the strong fight.

If words that are worthless go westward, Yet the worst word shall be as the best word, In the day when all riot sweeps restward, In darkness or light.

The Sick Stockrider

Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade.

Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd, All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.

The dawn at ”Moorabinda” was a mist rack dull and dense, The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp; I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence, I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp.

We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze, And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth; To southward lay ”Katawa”, with the sandpeaks all ablaze, And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north.

Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm, And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff; From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm, You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough.

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