May her statesmen shine;
Weld, O Lord, her vast foundations
With the link divine.
Righteousness be her attendant,
Majesty her throne,
Liberty her shield resplendent,
Equity her crown.
Guard her army and her navy,
Citadel and fleet,
Vanquish all her foes, we pray thee,
Lord, if it be meet.
May she ever be sustained
In her darkest hour;
Grant that peace be e’er maintained
By Thy grace and power.
Hark! the grand refrain is swelling,
Thrilling every ear;
Lord of hosts, within Thy dwelling
Holy Spirit, hear.
Though earth’s empires all must crumble,
Suns and systems wane,
In magnificence, yet humble,
Long may Austral reign.
I KNOW NOT.
I know not if my future years will be
With sorrow crowned,
Or if in solitude unknown to thee
I may be bound.
I know not, if, as down life’s stream I float
With look divine,
Some other hand will guide my fragile boat
Better than mine.
I know not, when right out of sight of port,
High on the crest,
Of raging billows which I vainly fought
I shall find rest.
I know not if dear spirit friends of yore
Will hear my voice,
And when they meet me safe upon yon shore
They will rejoice.
But this I know that He, my Lord, will stand
With glance of love
And hand stretched out to lead me o’er the strand
To Heaven above.
MOBILITE.
I sought the fragrance of the roses’ breath,
Bending beneath their burden of sweet dew;
How could I reconcile the thought of death
With blooms, which in such matchless beauty grew?
I sought the lily, pure as a pale bride,
So stately with its waxen petals wet,
Green-stemmed and slender, and it gently sighed
“Yet a few days and all my sun is set.”
I sought the woods wherein the whispering wind
Chanted a lullaby into my listening ear,
And faintly came an echoing voice behind,
“E’en as the leaves I change and disappear.”
I sought old ocean with its ceaseless moan,
Flinging white clinging arms of spumy spray
To grasp the shore, then in a solemn tone
It made reply, “I too must pass away.”
I sought the stars which in their orbits sway,
And just as day obscures their brilliant light,
The star of faith, though doubt may cloud the way,
Illumes with fervent glow the mists of night.
Oh! earth. Oh! heaven. Oh! death, which is but life.
That still small voice within doth ever say,
Here for a season set amid the strife,
Live thou thy best--for all must pass away.
Passing away where crowns and sceptred right,
Kings, lowly, meekly lay before the Throne,
And saints with creeds, and sinners, in the light
Of God’s great dawn, will worship Him alone.
MUSIC.
Let the sound of sweet music my spirit fill,
Come like the fall of a sparkling rill
Which murmureth ever a golden hymn
Of enchanting melody, or the dim
Low symphony, soft as the zephyrs make,
When they ruffle the face of the silver lake.
Then pouring beauty, and grace, and light
In voluptuous sounds of majestic might;
Nearer the beat of the mystic wings,
Sweet strains which only an angel sings,
While stars as the dew seems to fall around,
Then melt again at the heavenly sound.
Breathing, ravishing, tender notes,
A billow of chords which for ever floats
O’er shimmering seas of exalted bliss,
Touching the waves with a soft caress,
Sighing through forests where pale moon flowers
Glimmer and thirst for thy limpid showers,
Or pulsing and thrilling the heart and brain,
Oh! loosen the clouds of thy golden rain,
And steep my soul in its precious dower
Till it panteth overwhelmed ’neath thy magic power.
THE CITY OF THE “VIOLET CROWN.”
Stately upon Egea stands
The city of the “Violet Crown,”
Where gods and men in fancy met
And oratory attained renown;
Where sculptured beauty art disclosed
In all its matchless symmetry,
Brilliant as first when Phœbus glowed
Upon its dazzling purity.
There for all time the Prophylæ,
The glorious Acropolis,
And Nike Apteron doth speak
Of Marathon and Salamis.
Still looks the Areopagos o’er
Where Socrates was once arraigned,
His sentence heard--the hemlock drank,
And died, but his great words remained.
Here was the lap of literature
With elegance and wisdom blent,
With the majestic Parthenon
Its overwhelming monument.
In spirit once again we hear
The voices borne upon the wind,
High in the Temple of great Zeus,
On Mount Olympus far behind.
Oh! gods and heroes, ye no more
In solemn conclave since have met,
Thy gods were myths, but thy great deeds
Burneth within our memory yet.
And Corinth, Athens’ sister, lies
Straight, straight along the sacred road
Where gray Hymettus proudly swells
’Mid purple plain by heroes trode.
Lo! Arcady and Argoli
Unfold before our ravished sight,
And still the magic influence grows
And time moves backward in its flight.
There lies the ancient Argive plain
Where chiefs in angry council met,
When Paris took the Spartan frail,
The insult they did n’er forget.
Then fled in haste with her to Troy,
And Nemesis the pair pursued,
For calling all their braves to arms
Greece vengeance vowed to Priam’s brood.
And n’er will a magician weave
Their tales of prowess and of skill
As Homer--none so deft as he
Could thus the imagination thrill.
Lo! Delphi, where in darkness sat
The sacred priestess, while in wrath
’Mid clouds of incense serpent wound
The Oracle would issue forth.
Oh! Athena, the “violet crowned,”
Thy crystal founts and cypress groves,
Where Daphne and Minerva walked,
Leave but memory of their loves.
AURELLE.
I would frame a lyric sweet
To ma belle Aurelle;
Tresses rippling to her feet,
Laughing lips as well.
She hath hands as lilies pure,
Head of beauty’s mould,
Eyes like great brown pools so clear,
Sparkling depths enfold.
On a grassy knoll she stands,
Clasping wattle bloom--
Golden flower of Austral’s lands,
With its rich perfume.
Roses grace her cheeks so fair,
And she knoweth well
That she doth my heart ensnare--
Ma belle Aurelle.
And she singeth like a bird
At heaven’s gate,
When its swelling notes are stirred
By its mate.
And I know that Cupid’s dart--
Sharp, yet slender--
Some fine day will pierce her heart,
Oh, so tender.
But this stately maid of mine
Loveth none as me:
For her summers are but nine--
Aurelle mine, you see!
THE TALE OF THE GREAT WHITE PLAINS.
Day by day and night by night,
Till the great white plains in sight--
Speeds the “Terra Nova” on;
Britain’s laurels must be won,
So they press to reach their goal:
Point they to the Southern Pole.
What a tale thou dost unfold,
Far surpassing deeds of old.
Shades of Spartan heroes these
Mightier see in southern seas,
Mountain pillars gleaming white
In the lone Antarctic night.
Dazzling peaks, all tempest riven;
Shrouded ghosts, which gaze at heaven:
There, majestic, grand and free,
Towering o’er that frigid sea,
Terror, Erebus, look down
From their smouldering fiery throne.
Sunken eyes and cheeks so pale,
Still the stout hearts do not quail,
Though they pay a heavy toll
Yet, at length, they reach the Pole.
Lo! The Union Jack unfurled,
Britain’s finger leads the world.
Glory gained, they may not stay,
There is danger in delay.
Back o’er that wide trackless plain,
Mighty Scott with all his train
Passed, while death the white steed rode
Side by side the way they trode,
Through the blizzard’s freezing blast.
Will he claim his prey at last?
Buoyed with thoughts of northern skies
Oft’ their drooping spirits rise.
Where fond loved ones’ hopes and fears
Mingle with their prayers and tears--
So they struggle weakly on,
Strength and courage almost gone.
On, until with grief they find
Evans they must leave behind.
Ah! The other hut in view,
Will they see the blizzard through?
Yes! The camp at last they reach
Cold exhaustion numbing speech,
And brave Oates! Oh! Gallant heart,
Nobly doth he take his part
In this awful tragedy
Of the icy polar sea.
Facing death ’mid ice and snow
See the loyal comrade go;
Knowing nought his life could save
Sought he thus a lonely grave.
Silently we draw the veil
And his mournful end bewail.
Months elapse--what is their fate?
Wilson, Bowers, alas! Too late:
With their chief at length they find
In their sleeping bags enshrined,
Fresh as when their parting breath
Froze within the embrace of death.
Saintly looking in their sleep,
Only angels o’er them weep;
There in royal robes of snow
Lie our glorious heroes now.
And the message Scott would send:
“Guard our loved ones to the end.”
Britain’s, Austral’s hearts will be
With their dead in that white sea,
And their children, not in vain,
Oft will read the tale again,
And immortal memory shelve
Nineteen hundred years and twelve.
Not unmarked the way they trod,
For it led them up to God.
Lo! A cairn above them stands
Raised by gentle, loving hands
And a cross upon the spot
In that grand Antarctic grott,
While for aye they will remain
Martyrs of the Great White Plain.
[Illustration: text decoration]
AN AUSTRALIAN HYMN.
God of earth’s nations, Thee we sing--
Loud may Australia’s Anthem ring;
Look down in mercy from Thy throne
And with great empires make her one.
Lord, not supreme alone in health,
Or might, is she a Commonwealth,
But by the grace which Thou hast given
To spread her seed beneath the Heaven.
Grant that her sons, her citadel,
May ever hold impregnable;
Swift to defend and slow to hate--
The enemy within her gate.
Fair waves her pennon on the breeze,
Long may she reign in southern seas;
Oh, may Thy power and glory wait
Upon her mighty ship of state.
Oh, may her empire builders be
Faithful to base her dynasty
On Truth, with Liberty for shield,
And Battle-axe of Justice wield.
Yea, Thine the glory, Lord, may she
Fulfil her glorious destiny;
And Austral’s Anthem ever pour
Thy praise till time shall be no more.
GOD’S GIFT.
The pure pale blossoms of God’s gift, the flowers,
Breathe immortality.
They tell us of sweet, heavenly, dreamless hours
All through eternity.
They tell us of dear Mother Earth who press’d
So soft and deep
Their tiny seeds within her tender breast
As children sleep.
They tell us, these white souls of flowers, sent
To beautify
Our minds, of human souls, an emblem meant,
Which never die.
And when our bodies, like dear flowers, must
At length decay,
The seeds we sow will bloom, when we from dust
Have passed away.
Then let our lives be pure as these pale blooms
With fragrance blent,
That deeds, like flowers, shall be upon our tombs
A monument.
BECAUSE OF THEE.
Because of thee, the earth is fair to see,
The dawn more radiant for it breathes of thee,
It gloweth deeper in the eastern skies
As dawneth love within thy beauteous eyes.
Because of thee, my heart a song doth sing,
Its cadence in mine ear doth ever ring
So dulcet sweet, and though thou art not near
I feel, and know in spirit, thou can’st hear.
Because of thee, weak words may not convey
The holy calm which comes at close of day;
When sunsets flame like seas of beaten gold
Ere night her spangled draperies hath unrolled.
Because of thee, upon the balmy air,
Pæans from every plumaged worshipper
Thrill all my soul, dear love, and seem to me
Each liquid note a message sent from thee.
Because of thee, the flowers more odorous still,
With subtle fragrance, waken at my will
Sweet memories of the perfume-laden dew
Of the old garden, redolent of you.
Because of thee, this longing heart of mine
Hath none but thee to dwell within its shrine,
Its sacred taper thou, a glorious light,
My lode-star like a splendid vision bright.
Because of thee, the stars seem all enwrought
With beauty which enriches every thought;
The moon, a golden chariot in which we
May circle space for all eternity.
Because of thee, as o’er life’s mighty deep,
We glide together, soft shall be thy sleep;
His hand will guide our barque to yonder shore
To live, Oh, love--true life for evermore.
[Illustration: text decoration]
THE LEGEND OF OSYTH’S WOOD.
[TO W. RICHER.]
How well I remember the tranquil hours
We spent in the haunted wood;
How fair was the glade and the primrose flowers
Where the ruined abbey stood,
For there, near the lake where water springs--
It gushed in a crystal stream--
From the mouth of a dragon with carven wings
And eyes of a fearful gleam.
And there was the grotto, with walls inlet
With shells from the shining sands,
And the floor with mosaic scenes was set,
All relics from Eastern lands.
We played, and we idly wondered who
In the centuries past and gone
Had chiselled the antique shape so true
Of this monster in sculptured stone.
And the legend weird of this ancient pile
We many a time had heard,
And oft in the dusk we would list, the while
The leaves by the wind were stirred.
For ages and ages ago ’twas said
A prince of the Saxon blood
With the Lady Osyth one day was wed
By a priest of the holy rood.
He bade adieu at the altar there,
But alas, for the vows they made,
A rival prince took his bride so fair
By force to the forest shade.
She was rescued, assuming the sacred veil,
And a nun she had scarce been made,
When up to the abbey, in coat of mail,
Rode the prince with a gleaming blade.
And with sword held high he espied the face
Of his wife in a window near,
A moment more, in his fast embrace
Swooned the lady in deadly fear.
And fast on his palfrey they rode away
These twain through the woodland deep,
And saw not the rival till brought to bay
Near the “Fatal Lover’s Leap.”
And the enemy’s knights came and bore them on
And round to the moonlit lake
And jeered: “So perish each wicked one
Who is false to the vows they make.”
The prince they bound to his steed and led
The lady whose every limb
Trembled, while faltering prayers she said
And her glorious eyes grew dim.
Then they bade her stand by the dragon’s side
When with swift and sudden blow
The rapier fell, and her life’s red tide
Welled o’er to the stream below.
And the legend runs that the headless form
Of the maiden quickly bent
And lifted her head beneath her arm
While a shriek the wild echoes rent.
And the prince enraged, when he knew her fate,
Unbuckled his heavy mail,
And, stabbing himself as his steed he sate,
He died with a mournful wail.
And the story goes that the lady’s shade
Still walks, and her voice is heard,
When the moon is old in the haunted glade--
Like the cry of a wounded bird--
And the headless image in marble chased
Of this saint in the chancel old
Still stands, though time hath its lines effaced
And despoiled it of beauty’s mould.
And oft as I think of the woodland fair
And the legend, I fain would be
Once more near the dragon which standeth where
St. Osyth lived, just by the sea.
[Illustration: text decoration]
MOUNT GAMBIER, SOUTH AUSTRALIA.
In lone magnificence and stately pride,
Majestic in thy ruin and decay,
Thou, whose unfathomed crater yawned wide
When Pluto’s furies in thy depths held sway;
And forked lightning on black clouds astride,
And igneous rocks, their glowing masses hurled
While streams of lava in a ceaseless tide
Flowed o’er thy base upon a darkened world.
What hast thou felt in cycles long untold?
What hast thou heard within thine eyrie there,
That scalding tears of rage hath down thee rolled
Scarring thine image and thy bosom bare?
What hath the glorious sun-god looked upon,
Searching thy heart with brilliant-zoned light?
What hath the silver-veiled Fingari, lone
Viewed from her vantage in the solemn night?
Thou must have breathed when regal Pompeii, placed
On proud Italia’s olive-mantled shore
Was by Vesuvius’ wrath engulfed and rased,
And eighteen centuries was covered o’er.
If thou but had a tongue, mayhap thou would
Tell us when fair Lemuria disappeared,
Or how the dusky tribes, with rites of blood,
In bora rings their writhing victims speared.
Thou antique dial: scarce thou feeleth, though
Thy faint spasmodic tremblings still are felt,
And o’er thy sunken cranium waters flow,
The rocky amphitheatre thy belt.
Now, foliage green adorns thy noble form--
Lo! Mansions fair are nestling there serene
Around thy neck, and in the gathering gloom
At eve we picture what thou once hath been.
And Oh! Thou mighty Gambier, not in vain
Thou teacheth like a sad and silent sage
The wisdom and the pleasure we may gain
While pondering on thy splendour and thine age.
[Illustration: text decoration]
Prose Fragments
SCENTS AND THE PAST.
A STRONG CONNECTING LINK.
It sometimes happens that some uncommon perfume will carry us back to
the days of our girlhood, when our mothers would devoutly disclose to
the light of day all sorts of odd things, such as old letters smelling
of musk, or ribbons and pieces of old lace yellow with age, cast off
baby clothes, which once on a time, covered our tiny persons, little
pinafores or caps and booties, perhaps toys which once belonged to a
sister or brother, long since gone on the other side.
Again, such a perfume may remind us of a time when the whole family were
gathered around the festive board, laughing, bright with repartee, the
room redolent of fragrance from the tastefully arranged flowers, long
since forgotten. Somehow a scent brings back a flood of memories; the
scene; the very arch glance of a pair of eyes, or the grave sweet look
of a face, as though it were yesterday.
Some perfumes become a precious memory lying dormant, which one can
conjure up at will. Others are suddenly resurrected.
Lavender! What luxury to lie between sheets odorous of lavender. And the
old-fashioned potpourri of late years, having a revival of favour,
chiefly consisting of orris roots, violets and rose leaves--with sweet
thoughts centred and clinging around them. The roses!
Goddess of beauty, at thy magic breath
My spirit turneth from the gate of death,
And in thy deep red heart would find repose.
And dreams of Arcady--thou queenly rose!
And, talking of roses, what a lot of them are now being worn on the
hats. Never in the history or vagaries of fashion have flowers held such
pride of place as at present. And, although they are artificial, they
revive thoughts of perfume. Some of the models make us think of Watteau
shepherdesses as the right sort of beauties to wear them; but some of
our Queensland girls have faces pretty and artistic enough to grace
anything with advantage.
I heard a very pretty compliment paid to Queensland women as a whole the
other day by an English gentleman. He remarked (I hope my readers will
not become too vain after hearing this) that they are the neatest and
nicest dressed girls he had seen anywhere, and were an example--with the
exception of some over-dressed ones--to many English women. But to
return to our own “moutons.”
How the smell of very old furniture will make one’s memory retrace its
steps. The past stands out sadly or joyously, and sometimes it is so
subtle and suggestive as to convey one back to a confused memory, like a
thread of a pre-existence, which most of us have experienced. It is very
vague and uncertain. Yet there it is.
Yes! scents are strong connecting links between the past and present,
and we have a sense of gratitude, for it gives us something very
pleasant to think about--and sometimes has the charm of making our
existence free from feelings of ennui.
[Illustration: text decoration]
MALTA.
JUST A GLIMPSE.
It had been a very rough passage through the Bay of Biscay, and it was
an immense relief to run into calm water, so, hugging the coast of
southern Spain, we could distinctly see the shore, with trees standing
out in bold relief against the sky. So (I shall never as long as I live
forget the beauty of the scene) we approached the great, brown rock of
Gibraltar, with its hundred eyes of hate, bristling with guns, and with
the now fashionable watering place of Algiers on our left, we passed
through the great “Pillars of Hercules,” the extremities of Europe and
Africa almost meeting into the Mediterranean. The passage appears much
narrower than it really is, sea distance being deceptive. We steamed
along in the pinken glow of dawn, the change being very pleasant, and
the air gradually becoming warmer, until within a few miles of Malta
(which island, as you know, is off the southern coast of Sicily), when
it suddenly became quite hot. And, how shall I describe the impression,
under perfect weather conditions? The white rock, so imposing and
important politically, as well as commercially. A jewelled island, set
in a sapphire sea. A green vista of terraces of white houses, with green
shutters and awnings of scarlet and white, flapping in the breeze.
Pedestrians we could see in the distance with the ubiquitous umbrellas
and hats, green lined to keep off the glare of the sun. Presently we
anchored, and, hey presto! we were almost immediately surrounded by
vendors of all sorts of things in the shape of coral earrings,
bracelets, and brooches, good and bad Florida water, perfumes, real
Maltese lace and bad imitation. We inspected their wares, and amid a
babel of French and Italian (we being in a hurry), we purchased some
good lace and eau de Cologne.
Then, we decided we would go ashore, which three of us did, and we
passed the casinos and shipping offices, and wended our way up those
famous streets of stairs described by Lord Byron, and we no longer
wondered, when we thought of his poor deformed foot, how difficult he
must have found the ascent. Each house rose imperially above its
neighbour up those flights, and, peeping from some of the doors, were
dark-eyed Madonna-looking Spanish beauties, their classic heads draped
gracefully with mantillas. But the dominating smell, which spoilt it
all, was that of garlic. It assailed our nostrils; it seemed to be
everywhere, and we were told that, in some form or another, it was found
at every meal. At last we gained the top, after much stifled laughter,
and made for the barracks and the fort, after which we visited the
armoury, and imagined we had known the brave knights themselves, after
the kind information tendered by our guide in mixed Anglo-Saxon, French
and Italian.
We then went to the Cathedral of St. John, saw the Alexandrian Gate, and
the places set apart for worshippers of different sects, after which we
joined in a service in the central portion. Later on towards sunset, we
hired a fiacre with a Pegasus-like winged steed attached, and the way
that sorry horse flew along was marvellous. No whip was needed, and to
say he was as thin as a herring would be a libel on the herring.
Anyhow, we arrived safely at Valetta, the Government residence, and
visited the famous orange gardens. We returned to the ship, dined on
board, and then in the evening went toiling up again to the Royal Opera
House. The scene was very brilliant. An Italian Company was performing,
and the artistes were loaded with floral tributes. The next day we were
off again, and steamed to Cape Malea--but “that’s another story.”
[Illustration: text decoration]
SMYRNA.
It was a glorious morning when we arrived off Malea, and we steamed near
enough to distinguish the plateau on the rock where the celebrated old
hermit--who isolated himself in that lonely spot for so many years--had
always, on the approach of a vessel, advanced waving a flag.
The promontory passed, we were out of the Mediterranean, and we slowly
passed the maze of islands--the Cyclades--past Milo and Delos, famed in
song and story, Andros and Nicaria, and soon were making our way into
the Ægean Sea towards the volcanic island of Chios or Cos. This island
is off the Gulf of Smyrna, and has frequently been devastated by seismic
agencies.
It was a thrilling experience passing through the Gulf, and there, in
the light of evening, lay that ancient city--one of the seven Churches
of Asia--with its background of everlasting hills, beneath a turquoise
sky, carrying one’s mind back down the centuries, when St. Paul himself
preached there, and delivered the message to the churches.
Smyrna is the key of Asia Minor, and Anatolia is as large as France.
After our luggage had been inspected, we, after some altercation with
the drivers of various vehicles, were driven to our hotel, and, after
divesting ourselves of our travelling attire, we descended to the
table-d’-hôte, where dinner was served à la Russe. We noted the many
little dishes filled, one for each guest, with black and green olives,
and fresh beady-looking black caviare, the roe of the sturgeon,
indigenous to the Black Sea.
It was a truly cosmopolitan company which sat down to dine--so many
nationalities being represented--for Smyrna to-day is a very large and
important city of the near east.