II.

So take these kindly, even though there be Some notes that unto other lyres belong, Stray echoes from the elder sons of song; And think how from its neighbouring native sea The pensive sh.e.l.l doth borrow melody.

I would not do the lordly masters wrong By filching fair words from the shining throng Whose music haunts me as the wind a tree!

Lo, when a stranger in soft Syrian glooms Shot through with sunset treads the cedar dells, And hears the breezy ring of elfin bells Far down by where the white-haired cataract booms, He, faint with sweetness caught from forest smells, Bears thence, unwitting, plunder of perfumes.

September in Australia

Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest, And, behold, for repayment, September comes in with the wind of the West And the Spring in her raiment!

The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers, While the forest discovers Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours, And the music of lovers.

September, the maid with the swift, silver feet!

She glides, and she graces The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat, With her blossomy traces; Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose, She lightens and lingers In spots where the harp of the evening glows, Attuned by her fingers.

The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips In a darling old fashion; And the day goeth down with a song on its lips Whose key-note is pa.s.sion; Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea I stand, and remember Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, Resplendent September.

The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon And beats on the beaches, Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune That touches and teaches; The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time, And the death of Devotion, Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme In the waves of the ocean.

We, having a secret to others unknown, In the cool mountain-mosses, May whisper together, September, alone Of our loves and our losses.

One word for her beauty, and one for the grace She gave to the hours; And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face To sleep with the flowers.

Oh, season of changes -- of shadow and shine -- September the splendid!

My song hath no music to mingle with thine, And its burden is ended; But thou, being born of the winds and the sun, By mountain, by river, Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run, With thy voices for ever.

Rose Lorraine

Sweet water-moons, blown into lights Of flying gold on pool and creek, And many sounds and many sights Of younger days are back this week.

I cannot say I sought to face Or greatly cared to cross again The subtle spirit of the place Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine.

What though her voice rings clearly through A nightly dream I gladly keep, No wish have I to start anew Heart fountains that have ceased to leap.

Here, face to face with different days, And later things that plead for love, It would be worse than wrong to raise A phantom far too vain to move.

But, Rose Lorraine -- ah! Rose Lorraine, I'll whisper now, where no one hears -- If you should chance to meet again The man you kissed in soft, dead years, Just say for once "He suffered much,"

And add to this "His fate was worst Because of me, my voice, my touch" -- There is no pa.s.sion like the first!

If I that breathe your slow sweet name, As one breathes low notes on a flute, Have vext your peace with word of blame, The phrase is dead -- the lips are mute.

Yet when I turn towards the wall, In stormy nights, in times of rain, I often wish you could recall Your tender speeches, Rose Lorraine.

Because, you see, I thought them true, And did not count you self-deceived, And gave myself in all to you, And looked on Love as Life achieved.

Then came the bitter, sudden change, The fastened lips, the dumb despair: The first few weeks were very strange, And long, and sad, and hard to bear.

No woman lives with power to burst My pa.s.sion's bonds, and set me free; For Rose is last where Rose was first, And only Rose is fair to me.

The faintest memory of her face, The wilful face that hurt me so, Is followed by a fiery trace That Rose Lorraine must never know.

I keep a faded ribbon string You used to wear about your throat; And of this pale, this perished thing, I think I know the threads by rote.

G.o.d help such love! To touch your hand, To loiter where your feet might fall, You marvellous girl, my soul would stand The worst of h.e.l.l -- its fires and all!

To a Mountain

To thee, O father of the stately peaks, Above me in the loftier light -- to thee, Imperial brother of those awful hills Whose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame, Whose heads are where the G.o.ds are, and whose sides Of strength are belted round with all the zones Of all the world, I dedicate these songs.

And if, within the compa.s.s of this book, There lives and glows ONE verse in which there beats The pulse of wind and torrent -- if ONE line Is here that like a running water sounds, And seems an echo from the lands of leaf, Be sure that line is thine. Here, in this home, Away from men and books and all the schools, I take thee for my Teacher. In thy voice Of deathless majesty, I, kneeling, hear G.o.d's grand authentic Gospel! Year by year, The great sublime cantata of thy storm Strikes through my spirit -- fills it with a life Of startling beauty! Thou my Bible art With holy leaves of rock, and flower, and tree, And moss, and shining runnel. From each page That helps to make thy awful volume, I Have learned a n.o.ble lesson. In the psalm Of thy grave winds, and in the liturgy Of singing waters, lo! my soul has heard The higher worship; and from thee, indeed, The broad foundations of a finer hope Were gathered in; and thou hast lifted up The blind horizon for a larger faith!

Moreover, walking in exalted woods Of naked glory, in the green and gold Of forest sunshine, I have paused like one With all the life transfigured: and a flood Of light ineffable has made me feel As felt the grand old prophets caught away By flames of inspiration; but the words Sufficient for the story of my Dream Are far too splendid for poor human lips!

But thou, to whom I turn with reverent eyes -- O stately Father, whose majestic face Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud, Where high dominion of the morning is -- Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs Are pallid adumbrations! Certain sounds Of strong authentic sorrow in this book May have the sob of upland torrents -- these, And only these, may touch the great World's heart; For, lo! they are the issues of that grief Which makes a man more human, and his life More like that frank exalted life of thine.

But in these pages there are other tones In which thy large, superior voice is not -- Through which no beauty that resembles thine Has ever shone. THESE are the broken words Of blind occasions, when the World has come Between me and my Dream. No song is here Of mighty compa.s.s; for my singing robes I've worn in stolen moments. All my days Have been the days of a laborious life, And ever on my struggling soul has burned The fierce heat of this hurried sphere. But thou, To whose fair majesty I dedicate My book of rhymes -- thou hast the perfect rest Which makes the heaven of the highest G.o.ds!

To thee the noises of this violent time Are far, faint whispers; and, from age to age, Within the world and yet apart from it, Thou standest! Round thy lordly capes the sea Rolls on with a superb indifference For ever; in thy deep, green, gracious glens The silver fountains sing for ever. Far Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves, The royal robe of morning on thy head Abides for ever! Evermore the wind Is thy august companion; and thy peers Are cloud, and thunder, and the face sublime Of blue mid-heaven! On thy awful brow Is Deity; and in that voice of thine There is the great imperial utterance Of G.o.d for ever; and thy feet are set Where evermore, through all the days and years, There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave.

Araluen

Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deep Mosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep.

Put the blossom close to baby -- kneel with me, my love, and pray; We must leave the bird we've buried -- say good-bye to her to-day; In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands, And the flowers we have fostered will be left to other hands.

Other eyes will watch them growing -- other feet will softly tread Where two hearts are nearly breaking, where so many tears are shed.

Bitter is the world we live in: life and love are mixed with pain; We will never see these daisies -- never water them again.

Here the blue-eyed Spring will linger, here the shining month will stay, Like a friend, by Araluen, when we two are far away; But, beyond the wild, wide waters, we will tread another sh.o.r.e -- We will never watch this blossom, never see it any more.

Girl, whose hand at G.o.d's high altar in the dear, dead year I pressed, Lean your stricken head upon me -- this is still your lover's breast!

She who sleeps was first and sweetest -- none we have to take her place!

Empty is the little cradle -- absent is the little face.

Other children may be given; but this rose beyond recall, But this garland of your girlhood, will be dearest of them all.

None will ever, Araluen, nestle where you used to be, In my heart of hearts, you darling, when the world was new to me; We were young when you were with us, life and love were happy things To your father and your mother ere the angels gave you wings.

You that sit and sob beside me -- you, upon whose golden head Many rains of many sorrows have from day to day been shed; Who, because your love was n.o.ble, faced with me the lot austere Ever pressing with its hardship on the man of letters here -- Let me feel that you are near me, lay your hand within mine own; You are all I have to live for, now that we are left alone.

Three there were, but one has vanished. Sins of mine have made you weep; But forgive your baby's father now that baby is asleep.

Let us go, for night is falling, leave the darling with her flowers; Other hands will come and tend them -- other friends in other hours.

After Many Years

The song that once I dreamed about, The tender, touching thing, As radiant as the rose without, The love of wind and wing: The perfect verses, to the tune Of woodland music set, As beautiful as afternoon, Remain unwritten yet.

It is too late to write them now -- The ancient fire is cold; No ardent lights illume the brow, As in the days of old.

I cannot dream the dream again; But, when the happy birds Are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words.