Conde had come with us all the way -- Eight hundred miles -- but the fortnight's rest Made him fresh as a youngster, the st.u.r.dy bay!

And Lurline was looking her very best.

Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed 'Mid the silvery saltbush well content; Where the creeks lay cool 'neath the gidya's shade The stock-horses cl.u.s.tered, travel-spent.

In the bright spring morning we left them all -- Camp, and cattle, and white, and black -- And rode for the Range's westward fall, Where the dingo's trail was the only track.

Slow through the clay-pans, wet to the knee, With the cane-gra.s.s rustling overhead; Swift o'er the plains with never a tree; Up the cliffs by a torrent's bed.

Bridle on arm for a mile or more We toiled, ere we reached Bindanna's verge And saw -- as one sees a far-off sh.o.r.e -- The blue hills bounding the forest surge.

An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred, Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliff's base; And its sound like the noise of waves was heard 'Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place.

We recked not of wealth in stream or soil As we heard on the heights the breezes sing; We felt no longer our travel-toil; We feared no more what the years might bring.

No Message

She heard the story of the end, Each message, too, she heard; And there was one for every friend; For her alone -- no word.

And shall she bear a heavier heart, And deem his love was fled; Because his soul from earth could part Leaving her name unsaid?

No -- No! -- Though neither sign nor sound A parting thought expressed -- Not heedless pa.s.sed the Homeward-Bound Of her he loved the best.

Of voyage-perils, bravely borne, He would not tell the tale; Of shattered planks and canvas torn, And war with wind and gale.

He waited till the light-house star Should rise against the sky; And from the mainland, looming far, The forest scents blow by.

He hoped to tell -- a.s.surance sweet! -- That pain and grief were o'er -- What blessings haste the soul to meet, Ere yet within the door.

Then one farewell he thought to speak When all the rest were past -- As in the parting-hour we seek The dearest hand the last.

And while for this delaying but To see Heaven's opening Gate -- Lo, it received him -- and was shut -- Ere he could say "I wait."

Happy Days

A fringe of rushes -- one green line Upon a faded plain; A silver streak of water-shine -- Above, tree-watchers twain.

It was our resting-place awhile, And still, with backward gaze, We say: "'Tis many a weary mile -- But there were happy days."

And shall no ripple break the sand Upon our farther way?

Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand?

Or leafy tree-tops sway?

The gold of dawn is surely met In sunset's lavish blaze; And -- in horizons hidden yet -- There shall be happy days.

Henry Lea Twisleton.

To a Cabbage Rose

Thy cl.u.s.tering leaves are steeped in splendour; No evening red, no morning dun, Can show a hue as rich and tender As thine -- bright lover of the sun!

What wondrous hints of hidden glory, Of strains no human lips can sing; What symbols rare of life's strange story, Dost thou from earth's dark bosom bring!

What elements have made thy sweetness, Thy glowing hue, thy emerald stem?

What hand has fashioned to completeness From tiny germ, thy diadem?

Thou art the fair earth's fond expression Of tenderness for heaven above -- The virgin blush that yields confession -- Thou bright "amba.s.sador of love"!

Fair are thy leaves when summer glowing Lies in the lap of swooning spring; But where art thou when autumn, blowing, Bids youth and tenderness take wing?

Sweet messenger! thou waftest beauty Wherever human lives are sown, Around the peasant's humble duty Or weary grandeurs of a throne.

Transfused through hearts in future ages, Thy glowing power anew may shine Effulgent in the poets' pages Or music's harmony divine.

But not to thee from future glory Can shine one added charm or day; Sweet is thy life's unwritten story Of radiant bloom and swift decay.

Give, then, to vagrant winds thy sweetness, Shine, tearful, in the summer shower; And, heedless of thy season's fleetness, Enrich with joy the pa.s.sing hour.

Mrs. James Glenny Wilson.

Fairyland

Do you remember that careless band, Riding o'er meadow and wet sea-sand, One autumn day, in a mist of sunshine, Joyously seeking for fairyland?

The wind in the tree-tops was scarcely heard, The streamlet repeated its one silver word, And far away, o'er the depths of wood-land, Floated the bell of the parson-bird.

Pale h.o.a.r-frost glittered in shady slips, Where ferns were dipping their finger-tips, From mossy branches a faint perfume Breathed o'er honeyed Clematis lips.

At last we climbed to the ridge on high Ah, crystal vision! Dreamland nigh!

Far, far below us, the wide Pacific Slumbered in azure from sky to sky.

And cloud and shadow, across the deep Wavered, or paused in enchanted sleep, And eastward, the purple-misted islets Fretted the wave with terrace and steep.