Part 15 (1/2)

Evermore of you I think, When the leaves begin to fall, Where our river breaks its brink, And a rest is over all.

Evermore in quiet lands, Friend of mine beyond the sea, Memory comes with cunning hands, Stays, and paints your face for me.

At Euroma

-- * Charles Harpur was buried at Euroma, N.S.W., but this poem refers to the grave of a stranger whose name is unknown.

They built his mound of the rough, red ground, By the dip of a desert dell, Where all things sweet are killed by the heat, And scattered o'er flat and fell; In a burning zone they left him alone, Past the uttermost western plain, And the nightfall dim heard his funeral hymn In the voices of wind and rain.

The songs austere of the forests drear, And the echoes of clift and cave, When the dark is keen where the storm hath been, Fleet over the far-away grave.

And through the days when the torrid rays Strike down on a coppery gloom, Some spirit grieves in the perished leaves, Whose theme is that desolate tomb.

No human foot or paw of brute Halts now where the stranger sleeps; But cloud and star his fellows are, And the rain that sobs and weeps.

The dingo yells by the far iron fells, The plover is loud in the range, But they never come near to the slumberer here, Whose rest is a rest without change.

Ah! in his life, had he mother or wife, To wait for his step on the floor?

Did beauty wax dim while watching for him Who pa.s.sed through the threshold no more?

Doth it trouble his head? He is one with the dead; He lies by the alien streams; And sweeter than sleep is death that is deep And unvexed by the lords.h.i.+p of dreams.

Illa Creek

A strong sea-wind flies up and sings Across the blown-wet border, Whose stormy echo runs and rings Like bells in wild disorder.

Fierce breath hath vexed the foreland's face, It glistens, glooms, and glistens; But deep within this quiet place Sweet Illa lies and listens.

Sweet Illa of the s.h.i.+ning sands, She sleeps in shady hollows, Where August flits with flowerful hands, And silver Summer follows.

Far up the naked hills is heard A noise of many waters, But green-haired Illa lies unstirred Amongst her star-like daughters.

The tempest, pent in moaning ways, Awakes the shepherd yonder, But Illa dreams unknown to days Whose wings are wind and thunder.

Here fairy hands and floral feet Are brought by bright October; Here, stained with grapes and smit with heat, Comes Autumn, sweet and sober.

Here lovers rest, what time the red And yellow colours mingle, And daylight droops with dying head Beyond the western dingle.

And here, from month to month, the time Is kissed by peace and pleasure, While Nature sings her woodland rhyme And h.o.a.rds her woodland treasure.

Ah, Illa Creek! ere evening spreads Her wings o'er towns unshaded, How oft we seek thy mossy beds To lave our foreheads faded!

For, let me whisper, then we find The strength that lives, nor falters, In wood and water, waste and wind, And hidden mountain altars.