Part 7 (1/2)
Through many a fragrant cedar grove A darkened water moans; And there pale Memory stood with Love Amongst the moss-green stones.
The s.h.i.+mmering sunlight fell and kissed The gra.s.stree's golden sheaves; But we were troubled with a mist Of music in the leaves.
One pa.s.sed us, like a sudden gleam; Her face was deadly fair.
”Oh, go,” we said, ”you homeless Dream Of Ella's s.h.i.+ning hair!
”We halt, like one with tired wings, And we would fain forget That there are tempting, maddening things Too high to clutch at yet!
”Though seven Springs have filled the Wood With pleasant hints and signs, Since faltering feet went forth and stood With Death amongst the pines.”
From point to point unwittingly We wish to clamber still, Till we have light enough to see The summits of the hill.
”O do not cry, my sister dear,”
Said beaming Hope to Love, ”Though we have been so troubled here The Land is calm above;
”Beyond the regions of the storm We'll find the golden gates, Where, all the day, a radiant Form, Our Ella, sits and waits.”
And Memory murmured: ”She was one Of G.o.d's own darlings lent; And Angels wept that she had gone, And wondered why she went.
”I know they came, and talked to her, Through every garden breeze, About eternal Hills of Myrrh, And quiet Jasper Seas.
”For her the Earth contained no charms; All things were strange and wild; And I believe a Seraph's arms Caught up the sainted Child.”
And Love looked round, and said: ”Oh, you That sit by Beulah's streams, Shake on this thirsty life the dew Which brings immortal dreams!
”Ah! turn to us, and greet us oft With looks of pitying balm, And hints of heaven, in whispers soft, To make our troubles calm.
”My Ella with the s.h.i.+ning hair, Behold, these many years, We've held up wearied hands in prayer; And groped about in tears.”
But Hope sings on: ”Beyond the storm We'll find the golden gates Where, all the day, a radiant Form, Our Ella, sits and waits.”
The Barcoo
(The Squatters' Song)
From the runs of the Narran, wide-dotted with sheep, And loud with the lowing of cattle, We speed for a land where the strange forests sleep And the hidden creeks bubble and brattle!
Now call on the horses, and leave the blind courses And sources of rivers that all of us know; For, crossing the ridges, and pa.s.sing the ledges, And running up gorges, we'll come to the verges Of gullies where waters eternally flow.
Oh! the herds they will rush down the spurs of the hill To feed on the gra.s.ses so cool and so sweet; And I think that my life with delight will stand still When we halt with the pleasant Barcoo at our feet.
Good-bye to the Barwon, and brigalow scrubs, Adieu to the Culgoa ranges, But look for the mulga and salt-bitten shrubs, Though the face of the forest-land changes.
The leagues we may travel down beds of hot gravel, And clay-crusted reaches where moisture hath been, While searching for waters, may vex us and thwart us, Yet who would be quailing, or fainting, or failing?
Not you, who are men of the Narran, I ween!
When we leave the dry channels away to the south, And reach the far plains we are journeying to, We will cry, though our lips may be glued with the drouth, Hip, hip, and hurrah for the pleasant Barcoo!
Bells Beyond the Forest
Wild-eyed woodlands, here I rest me, underneath the gaunt and ghastly trees; Underneath fantastic-fronted caverns crammed with many a m.u.f.fled breeze.