YAMBUK
Once upon a time, in a "kingdom by the sea," known to men as Port Fairy,
"Yambuk" was a choice and precious exemplar of the old-fashioned cattle
station. What a haven of peace--what a restful elysium, would it be in
these degenerate days of hurry and pressure and progress, and all
that--could one but fall upon it! If one could only gallop up now to
that garden gate, receive the old cordial welcome, and turn his horse
into the paddock, what a _fontaine de jouvence_ would bubble up! Should
one ride forth and essay the deed? It could hardly be managed. We should
not be able to find our way. There would be roads and fences, with
obtrusive shingled cottages, and wheat-fields, barns, and threshing
machines--in short, all the hostile emblems of agricultural settlement,
as it is called.
I like it not; I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.
Fronting the farther side of the Shaw River, down to a bank of which the
garden sloped, were broad limestone flats, upon which rose clumps of
the beautiful blackwood or hickory tree, some of Australia's noblest
growth, when old and umbrageous.
The bungalow, low-roofed, verandah-protected, was thatched at the early
period which I recall, the rafters the strongest of the slender ti-tree
saplings in the brush which bordered the river-side. The mansion was not
imposing, but what of that? The rooms were of fair size, the hospitality
refined, spontaneous, and pervading every look and tone; and we, who in
old days were wont to share it on our journeys to and from the
metropolis of the district, would not have exchanged it for a palace.
People were not so ambitious then as of late years. Nor was the
transcendent future of stock-holding visible to the mental eye, when
companies and syndicates would compete for the possession of mammoth
holdings, with more sheep and cattle de-pasturing thereon than we then
believed the whole colony could carry.
No! a man with a thousand head of well-bred cattle, on a run capable of
holding half as many more, so as to leave a reserve in case of
bush-fires and bad seasons, was thought fairly endowed with this world's
goods. If prudent, he was able to afford himself a trip to Melbourne
twice a year or so, and to save money in reason. He generally kept a few
brood mares, and so was enabled to rear a superior hackney for himself
or friend. As it was not the custom to keep more than a stock-rider, and
one other man for general purposes, he had a reasonable share of daily
work cut out for himself.
"Yambuk" was then an extremely picturesque station, combining within
its limits unusual variety of soil and scenery, land and water. The
larger grazing portion consisted of open undulating limestone ridges,
which ran parallel with the sea-beach. The River Shaw, deepening as it
debouched on the ocean, was the south-eastern boundary of the run. All
the country for some miles up its course, past the village of Orford,
then only known as The Crossing Place, and along the coast-line towards
Portland Bay, was originally within the bounds of the "Yambuk" run.
Between the limestone ridges and the sea were sand-hills, thickly
covered with the forest oak, which, growing almost to the beach, braved
the stern sea blasts. Very sound and well sheltered were they, affording
advantageous quarters to the herd in the long winters of the West.
When our dreamy summer-time was o'er, a truly Arcadian season, with
"blue and golden days" and purple-shadowed eves, wild wrathful gales
hurtled over the ocean waste, rioting southward to the Pole. Mustering
in stormy weather was a special experience. Gathering amid the
sea-woods, the winter's day darkening fast, a drove of heavy bullocks,
perhaps, lumbering over the sands before us, amid the flying spume,
their hoofs in the surf ever and anon,--it was a season study, worth
riding many a mile to see. No cove or bay restrained the angry waters. A
misty cloud-rack formed the horizon, to which stretched the boundless
ocean-plain of the Pacific, while giant billows, rank on rank, foamed
fiercely landward, to meet in wrath and impotently rage on the lonely
shore below us.
How often has that picture been recalled to me in later years amid the
arid plains of Australia Deserta! The sad-toned, far-stretching
shore--the angry storm-voices of the terrible deep--the little band of
horsemen--the lowing, half-wild drove--the red-litten cloud prison,
wherein the sun lay dying!
Pleasant exceedingly, in contrast, when the cattle were yarded and rails
securely pegged, to unsaddle and walk into the house, where lights and
glowing fires, with a well-appointed table, awaited us, presided over by
a Châtelaine whose soft voice and ever-varied converse, mirthful or
mournful, serious or satirical, practical or poetic, never failed to
soothe and interest.
Stock-riding in those days, half real business, half sport, as we
youngsters held it to be, was certainly not one of those games into
which, as Lindsay Gordon sings--"No harm could possibly find its way."
Part of the "Yambuk" run was distinctly dangerous riding. Where the
wombats dug their treacherous shafts and galleries, how many a good
steed and horseman have I seen o'erthrown! These peculiar night-feeding
animals, akin to the badger of the old country, burrowed much among the
coast hummocks. Their open shafts, though not particularly nice to ride
among at speed, with your horse's head close behind the hard-pressed
steer, were trifling drawbacks compared to the horizontal "drives" into
which, when mined too near the surface, your horse's feet often broke.
The solid turf would disappear, and letting your horse into a concealed
pitfall up to the shoulder, gave a shock that often told tales in a
strained joint or a broken collar-bone. We fell lightly in those days,
however, and, even when our nags rolled over us, scorned to complain of
the trifling occurrence.
The limestone country, too, held cavities and sudden appearing fissures
of alarming depth, which caused the fiery steed to tremble and the
ardent rider to pale temporarily when suddenly confronted. At the
south-eastern boundary of the run the forests were dense, the marshes
deeper, the country generally more difficult, than on the coast-line.
The ruder portion of the herd "made out" that way, and many a hard
gallop they cost us at muster-time.
The run had been "taken up" for and on account of Captain Baxter,
formerly of Her Majesty's 50th Regiment, about a year before my time,
that is in 1843, by Mr. George Dumoulin, acting as overseer. This
gentleman, a son of one of the early Imperial officials, and presumably
of Huguenot descent, was a most amusing and energetic person. Inheriting
the _legèreté_ of his Gallic ancestors, his disposition led him to be
_toujours gai_, even under the most unpromising circumstances. A capital
manager, in the restricted sense then most appreciated, he spent no
money, save on the barest necessaries, and did all the stock-keeping
himself, with the occasional aid of a black boy. When I first set eyes
on Yambuk station there were but two small thatched huts, no garden, no
horse-paddock, and a very indifferent stock-yard. The rations had run
out lately--there was no salt, for one thing--and as the establishment
had then been living upon fresh veal for a fortnight, it was impressed
upon me, forcibly, that no one here would look at fillets or cutlets of
that "delicate meat that the soul loveth," under ordinary culinary
conditions, for at least a year afterwards.
Mr. Dumoulin, though wonderfully cheery as a general rule, was subject
to occasional fits of despondency. They were dark, in proportion to his
generally high standard of spirits. When this lowered tone set in, he
generally alluded to his want of success hitherto in life, the
improbability of his attaining to a station of his own, the easiest
thing in those days if you had a very little money or stock. But capital
being scarce and credit wanting for the use of enterprising speculators
who had nothing but pluck and experience, it was hard, mostly
impossible, to procure that necessary fulcrum. Regarding those things,
and mourning over past disappointments, he generally wound up by
affirming that "all the world would come right, but that poor Dumoulin
would be left on his--beam ends--at the last." And yet what splendid
opportunities lay in the womb of Time for him, for all of us! So when
Captain Baxter and his wife came from their New England home to take
possession and live at Yambuk "for good," there was no necessity for Mr.
Dumoulin to abide there longer, the profits of a station of that size
rarely permitting the proprietor and overseer to jointly administer.
When the gold came we heard of him in a position of responsibility and
high pay, but whether he rose to his proper status, or malignant destiny
refused promotion, we have no knowledge. He was a good specimen of the
pioneers to whom Australia owes so much--brave to recklessness, patient
of toil, hardy, and full of endurance--a good bushman and first-class
stock-rider.
The captain and Mrs. Baxter drove tandem overland the whole distance
from New England to Yambuk, some hundreds of miles, encamping regularly
with a few favourite horses and dogs. Their journal, faithfully kept, of
each day's progress and the road events was a most interesting one, and
would show that even before the days of Miss Bird and Miss
Gordon-Cumming there were lady travellers who dared the perils of the
wilderness and its wilder denizens. A fine horsewoman, passionately fond
of her dumb favourites, Mrs. Baxter was as happy in the company of her
nice old roan Arab "Kaffir," the beautiful greyhound "Ada," and the
collie "Rogue," as more _exigeantes_, though not more gently nurtured
dames, would have been with all the materials of a society picnic.
One advantage of this sort of overland-route work is that when the goal
_is_ reached the humblest surroundings suffice for a home, all luxury
and privilege being comprehended in the idea that you have not to move
on next day.
Once arrived, the abode _en permanence_ is the great matter for
thankfulness. The building may be unfinished and inadequate, not
boasting even of a chimney, yet rugs are spread as by Moslems in a
caravanserai, and all thank Allah fervently in that we are permitted to
stay and abide there indefinitely.
With the arrival of the master and mistress speedy alteration for the
better took place. The cottage was built--an Indian bungalow in
architecture--with wooden walls, the roof and verandahs thatched with
the long tussock grass. A garden with fruit trees and flowers was
planted, the fertile chocolate-coloured loam responding eagerly.
Furniture arrived, including a piano and other lady adjuncts. A detached
kitchen was constructed. Mr. Dumoulin's "improvements" were abandoned to
the stock-rider, and the new era of "Yambuk" was inaugurated. Far
pleasanter in every way, to my mind, than any which have succeeded it.
The _locale_ certainly had many advantages. It was only twelve miles
from that fascinatingly pleasant little country town of Port Fairy--we
didn't call it Belfast then, and didn't want to. The road was good, and
admitted of riding in and out the same day. As it was a seaport town,
stores were cheap, and everything needful could be procured from Sydney
or Melbourne. There was then not an acre of land sold, west of the Shaw,
before you reached Portland, and very little to the east, except
immediately around the town. One cannot imagine a more perfect country
residence, having regard to the period, and the necessities of the early
squatting community. The climate was delightful. Modified Tasmanian
weather prevailed, nearly as cold in winter, quite sufficiently bracing,
but without frost, the proximity to the coast so providing. English
fruits grew and bore splendidly. Finer apples and pears, gooseberries
and cherries, no rejoicing schoolboy ever revelled in. The summers were
surpassingly lovely, cooled with the breezes that swept over the long
rollers of the Pacific, and lulled the sleeper to rest with the measured
roll of the surge upon the broad beaches which stretched from the Moyne
to Portland Bay. Talking of beaches, what a glorious sensation is that
of riding over one at midnight!
Ah! well do I remember
That loved and lonely hour
when a party of us started one moonlight night to ride from Port Fairy
to Portland (fifty miles) for the purpose of boarding an emigrant
vessel, from which we hoped to be able to hire men-servants and
maid-servants, then, as now, exceeding scarce. My grand little horse
"Hope" had carried me from home, thirty miles, that day, but, fed and
rested, he was not particular about a few miles farther. We dined
merrily, and at something before ten o'clock set forth. Lloyd Rutledge,
who was my companion, rode his well-known black hackney and plater,
"Molonglo Jack." As we started at a canter along the Portland road--the
low moon nearly full, and just rising, the sky cloudless--it was an
Arabian Night, one for romance and adventure. The other horses had been
in their stalls all day, but as I touched my lower bridle rein my
gallant little steed--one of the most awful pullers that ever funked a
Christian--rose on his hind legs and made as though about to jump on to
the adjoining houses. This was only a trick I had taught him; at a sign
he would rear and plunge "like all possessed," but it showed that he was
keen for business, and I did not fear trying conclusions with the best
horse there. Like Mr. Sawyer's Jack-a-dandy, he would have won the Derby
if it had not been more than half a mile. He did win the Port Fairy
Steeplechase next year, over stiff timber, with Johnny Gorrie on his
back, and in good company too.
Away we went. The sands were some miles past Yambuk. When we rode down
upon them, what wonders lay before us! The tide was out. For leagues
upon leagues stretched the ocean shore--a milk-white beach, wide as a
parade-ground, level as a tennis-court, and so hard under foot that our
horses' hoofs rang sharp and clear. Excited by the night, the moon, the
novelty, they tore at their bits and raced one another in a succession
of heats, which it took all our skill, aided by effective double bridles
of the Weymouth pattern, to moderate. As for our companions, they were
left miles behind.
We were at the turn, just abreast of "Lady Julia Percy Island," which
lay on the slumbering ocean's breast like some cloud fallen from the
sky, or an enchanted isle, where the fairy princess might be imprisoned
until the Viking's galley arrived, or the prince was conveniently cast
away on the adjacent rocks.
Far as eye could see shone the illimitable ocean, "still as a slave
before his lord," star-brightened here and there. Southward a
lengthening silver pathway rippled in the moon-gleam, shimmering and
glowing far away towards the soft cloudland of the horizon. Tiny capes
ran in from the forest border, and barred the line of vision from time
to time. Sweeping around these, our excited horses speeding as they had
become winged, we entered upon a fresh bay, another milk-white beach,
fitted for fairy revels. While over all the broad and yellow moon shed a
flood of radiance in which each twig and leaf of the forest fringe was
visible. So still was the night that even "the small ripple spilt upon
the beach" fell distinctly upon the ear.
As the pale dawn cloud rose in the east, the slumbering ocean began to
stir and moan. A land breeze came sighing forth from the dense forest
like a reproachful dryad as we charged the steep side of Lookout Hill,
and saw the roofs of Portland town before us. It was a longish
stage--fifty miles--but our horses still pressed gaily forward as if the
distance had been passed in a dream. We had no time to sentimentalise.
Labour was scarce. We stabled our good steeds, and transferred ourselves
to a waterman's boat. When the employers of Portland came on board in
leisurely fashion some hours later, the flower of the farm labourers
were under written agreement to proceed to Port Fairy. It rather opened
the eyes of the Portlanders, whom, in the sauciness of youth, we of the
rival township who called William Rutledge our mercantile chief were
wont to hold cheap. They needed servants for farm and station, as did
we, but there was no help for it; they had to content themselves with
what were left.
Personally, I had done well. The brothers Michael and Patrick Horan--two
fine upstanding Carlow men as one would wish to see--were indentured
safely to me for a year. They served me well in the after-time. Their
brother-in-law, with his wife, as a "married couple," and a smart
"colleen" about sixteen, a younger sister, came with them. It was a
"large order," but all our hands had cleared for Ballarat and Forest
Creek; we had hardly a soul in the place but the overseer and myself.
These immigrants were exactly of the class we wanted. I know a place
where a few such shiploads would be of great and signal utility now.
They were willing, well-behaved, and teachable. I broke in Pat Horan to
the stock-riding business, and within a twelvemonth he could ride a
buck-jumper, rope, brand, and draft with any old hand in the district.
He repeatedly took cattle to market in sole charge, and was always
efficient and trustworthy. Mick showed a gift for ploughing and
bullock-driving, and generally preferred farming. They both remained
with me for years--Pat, indeed, till the station was sold. They are
thriving farmers, I believe, within a few miles of Squattlesea Mere, at
this present day. I waited until nightfall, making arrangements to
receive our _engagés_ when they should arrive in Port Fairy, and then
mounted "Hope," in order to ride the thirty miles which lay between me
and home. The old horse was as fresh as paint, and landed me there well
on the hither side of midnight. One feels inclined to say there are no
such horses nowadays, but there is a trifling difference in the rider's
"form," I fancy, which accounts for much of this apparent equine
degeneracy. Anyhow, Hope was a "plum," and so was his mother before him.
Didn't she give me a fall over a fence at Yambuk one day, laming me for
a week and otherwise knocking me about--the only time I ever knew her
make a mistake? But wasn't a lady looking on, and wouldn't I have broken
my neck cheerfully, or any other important vertebra, for the sake of
being pitied and petted after the event?
When the gold discovery, and the consequent rise in prices, took place,
Captain Baxter was tempted to sell Yambuk with a good herd of cattle,
and so departed for the metropolis. Our society began to break up--its
foundations to loosen. People got so rich that they voted station life a
bore, and promoted their stock-riders to be overseers in charge. Many of
these were worthy people. But the charm of bush life had departed when
the proprietor no longer greeted you on dismounting, when there was no
question of books or music or cheery talk with which to while away the
evening. And thinking over those pleasant homes in the dear old forest
days, where one was always sure of sympathy and society, I know one
wayworn pilgrim who will ever in fancy recur to the _bon vieux temps_
whereof a goodly proportion--sometimes for one reason, sometimes for
another--was passed at Yambuk.
POEMS
BALLAARAT
A VISION OF GOLD
I see a lone stream, rolling down
Through valleys green, by ranges brown
Of hills that bear no name,
The dawn's full blush in crimson flakes
Is traced on palest blue, as breaks
The morn in Orient flame.
I see--whence comes that eager gaze?
Why rein the steed, in wild amaze?
The water's hue is gold!
Golden its wavelets foam and glide,
Through tenderest green to ocean-tide
The fairy streamlet rolled.
"Forward, 'Hope!' forward! truest steed,
Of tireless hoof and desert speed,
Up the weird water bound,
Till, echoing far and sounding deep,
I hear old Ocean's hoarse voice sweep
O'er this enchanted ground?"
The sea!--wild fancy! Many a mile
Of changeful Nature's frown and smile
Ere stand we on the shore.
And, yet! that murmur, hoarse and deep,
None save the ocean-surges keep?
It is--"the cradles' roar!"
Onward! we pass the grassy hill,
Around the base the waters still
Shimmer in golden foam;
O wanderer of the voiceless wild,
Of this far southern land the child,
How changed thy quiet home!
For, close as bees in countless hive,
Like emmet hosts that earnest strive,
Swarmed, toiled, a vast, strange crowd:
Haggard each worker's features seem,
Bright, fever-bright, each eye's wild gleam,
Nor cry, nor accent loud.
But each man dug, or rocked, or bore,
As if salvation with the ore
Of the mine-monarch lay.
Gold strung each arm to giant might,
Gold flashed before each aching sight,
Gold turned the night to day.
Where Eblis reigns o'er boundless gloom,
And, in his halls of endless doom
Lost souls for ever roam,
They wander (says the Eastern tale),
Nor ever startles moan or wail
Despair's eternal home.
Less silent scarce than that pale host
These toiled, as if each moment lost
Were the red life-drop spilt;
While, heavy, rough, and darkly bright,
In every shape, rolled to the light
Man's hope, and pride, and guilt.
All ranks, all ages! Every land
Had sent its conscripts forth, to stand
In the gold-seekers' rank:
The stalwart bushman's sinewy limb,
The pale-faced son of trade--e'en him
Who knew the fetters' clank.
* * * * *
'Tis night: her jewelled mantle fills
The busy valley, the dun hills,
'Tis a battle host's repose!
A thousand watch-fires redly gleam,
While ceaseless fusillades would seem
To warn approaching foes.
The night is older. On the sward
Stretched, I behold the heavens broad,
When--a Shape rises dim,
Then, clearer, fuller, I descry,
By the swart brow, the star-bright eye,
The Gnome-king's presence grim!
He stands upon a time-worn block;
His dark form shades the snowy rock
As cypress marble tomb:
Nor fierce yet wild and sad his mien,
His cloud-black tresses wave and stream,
His deep tones break the gloom.
"Son of a tribe accursed, of those
Whose greed has broken our repose
Of the long ages dead,
Think ye, for nought our ancient race
Leaves olden haunts, the sacred place
Of toils for ever fled?
"List while I tell of days to come,
When men shall wish the hammers dumb
That ring so ceaseless now;
That every arm were palsy-tied,
Nor ever wet on grey hillside
Was the gold-seeker's brow.
"I see the old world's human tide
Set southward on the ocean wide.
I see a wood of masts,
While crime or want, disease or death,
With each sigh of the north-wind's breath,
He on this fair shore casts.
"I see the murderer's barrel gleam,
I hear the victim's hopeless scream
Ring through these crimeless wastes;
While each base son of elder lands
Each witless dastard, in vast bands
To the gold-city hastes.
"Disease shall claim her ready toll,
Flushed vice and brutal crime the dole
Of life shall ne'er deny;
Danger and death shall stalk your streets,
While staggering idiocy greets
The horror-stricken eye!
"All men shall roll in the gold mire--
The height, the depth of man's desire--
Till come the famine years;
Then all the land shall curse the day
When first they rifled the dull clay,
With deep remorseful tears.
"Fell want shall wake to fearful life
The fettered demons. Civil strife
Rears high a gory hand!
I see a blood-splashed barricade,
While dimly lights the twilight glade
The soldier's flashing brand.
"But thou, son of the forest free!
Thou art not, wert not foe to me,
Frank tamer of the wild!
Thou hast not sought the sunless home
Where darkly delves the toiling Gnome,
The mid-earth's swarthy child.
"Then, be thou ever, as of yore,
A dweller in the woods, and o'er
Fresh plains thy herds shall roam.
Join not the vain and reckless crowd
Who swell the city's pageant proud,
But prize thy forest home."
He said: and, with an eldritch scream,
The Gnome-king vanished--and my dream:
Dawn's waking hour returned;
Yet still the wild tones echoed clear,
For many a day in reason's ear,
And my heart inly burned.
THE DEATH OF WELFORD[1]
Out by the far west-waters,
On the sea-land of the South,
Untombed the bones of a white man lay,
Slowly crumbling to kindred clay--
Sad prayer from Death's mute mouth!
Alone, far from his people,
The sun of his life went down.
A cry for help? No time--not a prayer:
As red blood splashed thro' riven hair,
His soul rose to Heaven's throne.
Ah! well for those felon hands
Which the strong man foully slew,
The cry from the Cross when our Saviour died
"Father, forgive"--as they pierced His side--
"For they know not what they do."
_They_ have souls, say the teachers
Hereafter, the same as we:
If so, it is hid from human grace
By blood-writ crimes of savage race
So deep, that we cannot see.
Fear than love is far stronger:
The cruel have seldom to rue:
The neck is bowed 'neath the heavy heel,
Love's covenant with _Death_ they seal;
"For they know not what they do."
This Dead, by the far sun-down,
This man whom they idly slew,
Was lover and friend to those who had slain
With him all human love, like Cain;
But "they know not what they do."
'Twixt laws Divine and human
To judge, if we only knew,
When the blood is hot, to part wrong from right,
When to forgive and when to smite
Foes who "know not what they do."
The wronger and wronged shall meet
For judgment, to die, or live;
And the heathen shall cry, in anguish fell,
At sight of the Bottomless Pit of Hell--
"We knew not, O Lord! Forgive."
[1] A young Englishman, "killed by blacks on the Barcoo."
SUNSET IN THE SOUTH
It is Autumn, it is sunset, magic shower of tint and hue;
All the west is hung with banners, white with golden, crimson, blue;
Drooping folds! far floating, mingling, falling on the river's face;
Upturned, placid, silver-mirrored, gazing into endless space.
Faint the breath of eve, low-sighing for bright summer's fading
charms;
Woodland cries are echoing, chiming with the sounds from distant
farms;
And the stubble fires are gleaming red athwart the wood's deep
shade,
While the marsh mist, slowly rising, shrouds the greenery of the
glade.
Redly still the day is dying, as if o'er the desert waste,
And we pictured camels, Arabs, and the solemn outline traced
Of a pillared lonely Fane, clear against the crimson rim,
Voiceless, but of empire telling, and the lore of ages dim.
Low the deep voice of the ocean, whispering to the silent strand;
Gleam the stars, in silver ripples; stretches broad the milk-white
sand;
And a long, low bark is lying underneath the island shore
Weird and dream-like, darksome, soundless, spell-struck now, and
evermore.
Deeper, darker fall the shadows, and the charmed colours wane,
Fading, as the fay-gold changes into earth and dross again,
Wildfowl stream in swaying files landward to the marshy plain;
Louder sound the forest voices and the deep tones of the main.
"BALACLAVA"
The word is "Charge," the meaning "Death,"
Yet, welcome falls the sound
On every ear in the listening host,
Whose pennons flutter, zephyr-tossed,
That messenger around.
Among them Nolan reins a steed
Frost-white with gathered foam,
And pale and stern points to the foe,
In heavy mass, receding slow--
"Charge, comrades, charge them home!"
There rides one with fearless brow,
By time and sorrow scarred.
For him life knows no tale untold,
But empty names, love, hope, and gold,--
Cool player of Fate's last card!
Beside him, he whose golden youth
Is in its pride and bloom.
His thoughts are with a dear old home,
Its loved ones, and that _other one_,
And will she mourn his doom?
Another knows of a sweet fond face
That will fade into ashy pale
As she hears the tale of that day of tears;
And a prayer rises to Him who hears
The widow and orphan's wail.
"We die," passed through each warrior's heart,
"And vainly, but the care
Rests not with us; 'tis ours to show
The world, old England, and the foe,
What Englishmen can dare."
Then bridle-reins are gathered up,
And sabres blaze on high,
And as each charger bounds away
Doubts flee like ghosts at opening day,
And each man joys to die.
St. George! it is a glorious sight
A splendid page of war,
To mark yon gorgeous, matchless troop,
Like some bright falcon, wildly swoop
On the sullen prey before.
CAPTAIN MARTINET (_loquitur_).
"Hurrah for the hearts of Englishmen,
And the thoroughbred's long stride,
As the vibrating, turf-tearing hoof-thunder rolled,
'Twas worth a year of one's life, all told,
To have seen our fellows ride!"
But what avails the sabre sweep?
There rolls the awful sound,
Telling through heart, and limb, and brain,
That the cannon mows its ghastly lane,
And corses strew the ground.
Ha! Nolan flings his arms apart,
And a death-cry rings in air;
And see, may Heaven its mercy yield!
His charger from a hopeless field
Doth a _dead rider_ bear.
The gunners lie by their linstocks dead,
While deep on every brow,
In the bloody scroll of our island swords,
Is the tale of each horseman's dying words,
"Our memory is deathless now."
Staggering back goes a broken band,
With standards soiled and torn,
With gory saddles and reeling steeds,
And ranks that are swaying like surging reeds
On a wild autumn morn.
Despair has gazed on many a field
Won by our fearless race;
And well the night wind, sighing low,
Knows where, with breast broad to the foe,
Is the dead Briton's place.
But never living horsemen rode
So near the eternal marge,
As those who ran the tilt that day
With Death, and bore their lives away
From the Balaclava charge.
THE BUSHMAN'S LULLABY
Lift me down to the creek bank, Jack,
It must be fresher outside;
The long hot day is well-nigh done;
It's a chance if I see another one;
I should like to look on the setting sun,
And the water, cool and wide.
We didn't think it would be like this
Last week, as we rode together;
True mates we've been in this far land
For many a year, since Devon's strand
We left for these wastes of sun-scorched sand
In the blessed English weather.
We left when the leafy lanes were green
And the trees met overhead,
The rippling brooks ran clear and gay,
The air was sweet with the scent of hay,
How well I remember the very day
And the words my mother said!
We have toiled and striven and fought it out
Under the hard blue sky,
Where the plains glowed red in tremulous light,
Where the haunting mirage mocked the sight
Of desperate men from morn till night,--
And the streams had long been dry.
Where we dug for gold on the mountain-side,
Where the ice-fed river ran;
In frost and blast, through fire and snow,
Where an Englishman could live and go,
We've followed our luck through weal and woe,
And never asked help from man.
And now it's over, it's hard to die
Ere the summer of life is o'er,
When the pulse beats high and the limbs are stark,
Ere time has printed one warning mark,
To quit the light for the unknown dark,
And, O God! to see home no more!
No more! no more! I that always vowed
That, whether or rich or poor,
Whatever the years might bring or change,
I would one day stand by the grey old grange,
And the children would gather, all shy and strange,
As I entered the well-known door.
You will go home to the old place, Jack;
Then tell my mother for me,
That I thought of the words she used to say,
Her looks, her tones, as I dying lay,
That I prayed to God, as I used to pray
When I knelt beside her knee.
By the lonely water they made their couch,
And the southern night fast fled;
They heard the wildfowl splash and cry,
They heard the mourning reeds' low sigh,
Such was the Bushman's lullaby,--
With the dawn his soul was sped.
MORNING
Morn on the waters! the glad bird flings
The diamond spray from his glittering wings.
Old ocean lieth in dreamless sleep,
As the slumber of childhood calmly deep,
Light falls the stroke of the fisher's oar,
As he leaves his cot by the shingly shore;
While the young wife's gaze, half sad, half bright,
Follows the frail bark's flashing flight.
Noon on the waters! O rustling breeze,
Sweet stealer 'mid old forest trees,
Wilt thou not thy sweet whisper keep
Nigh him who journeys the shadeless deep?
The wanderer dreams of the shadowy dell,
And the green-turfed, fairy-haunted well,
While the shafts of the noon-king's merciless might
Mingle day with sorrow, and death with light.
Night on the waters! murmuring hoarse,
The vexed deep threatens the bold bark's course,
The thunder-growl and the tempest moan
Sound like spirits that watch for the dying groan.
The storm-fiend sweeps o'er the starless waste,
And the unchained blasts to the gathering haste;
Man alone, unshaken, his course retains,
While the elements combat and chaos reigns.
WANTED
A young Lady of twenty-three years of age, as a teacher in a
Ladies' School. Satisfactory references required.--"TIMES"
_Advertisement_.
Why should I be _twenty-three_?
What are the virtues they can see
Just about to bloom in me
In the magical year of _twenty-three_?
Does a maiden, fair and free,
Get prudent just at _twenty-three_?
Whatever can the reason be
That they want a girl just _twenty-three_?
Dignified matron, whoever you be,
Would not twenty-two do for thee?
Would twenty-one be shown to the door,
And twenty told to come no more?
Nineteen, perhaps, would hardly be fit,
Eighteen strikes one as rather a chit.
Why must you search o'er land and sea
For the golden age of _twenty-three_?
Still the years glide on--for you and for me,
We're nearer, or farther from, _twenty-three_.
Oft, as I sit over my five o'clock tea,
I think, did she get her? age _twenty-three_!
When friends are cold and unkind to me,
I think there's a refuge when _twenty-three_.
On my birthday I'll write, unknown friend, to thee,
Exclaiming, "Here, take me, I'm _twenty-three_!"
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?
"PRIEZ POUR ELLE"
AN INCIDENT OF THE INDIAN MUTINY
In the old tower they stand at bay,
Where the Moslem fought of old;
True to their race, in that sad day
Their lives are dearly sold.
They are but three; a woman fair,
A boy of fearless brow,
He, whom she vowed to love is there--
God help her! then and now.
With fiercer leaguer never did
Those rugged stones resound,
As the swarthy yelling masses swayed
The time-worn keep around.
Our death-doomed brothers fired fast,
Our sister loaded well;
With each rifle-crack a spirit passed;
By scores the rebels fell.
Though corses choke the narrow way,
Still swarms the demon hive;
Like a tolling bell each heart _will_ say
"We ne'er go forth alive!"
Undaunted still--the leaden rain
Slacks not one moment's space--
With a crashing bullet through his brain,
The boy drops on his face!
With outstretched arms, with death-clutched hands,
His mother's darling lies,
No more, till rent the grave's dark bands,
To glad her loving eyes.
Gone the last hope! faint gleam of light--
Death stalks before their eyes--
While yells and screams of wild delight
From the frenzied crowd arise.
O God of mercy! can it be?
It is a hideous dream--
No!--nearer rolls the human sea,
Arms flash, and eyeballs gleam.
He thinks of her, pale, tender, fair--
To nameless tortures given,
Gore-stained and soiled the bright brown hair--
His very soul is riven.
He lifts the weapon. Did he think
Of a happy summer time--
Of the village meadow--river brink,
Of the merry wedding chime?
Little he dreamed of this dreary Now,
Or that ever he should stand
With the pistol-muzzle at her brow,
The trigger in _his_ hand!
They kissed--they clung in a last embrace,
They prayed a last deep prayer--
Then proudly she raised her tearful face,
And----a corse lay shuddering there!
He stooped, his love's soft eyes to close,
He smoothed the bright brown hair,
Smiled on the crowd of baffled foes,
Then, scattered his brains in air.
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.