I think I hear the echo still Of long-forgotten tones, When evening winds are on the hill And sunset fires the cones; But only in the hours supreme, With songs of land and sea, The lyrics of the leaf and stream, This echo comes to me.

No longer doth the earth reveal Her gracious green and gold; I sit where youth was once, and feel That I am growing old.

The l.u.s.tre from the face of things Is wearing all away; Like one who halts with tired wings, I rest and muse to-day.

There is a river in the range I love to think about; Perhaps the searching feet of change Have never found it out.

Ah! oftentimes I used to look Upon its banks, and long To steal the beauty of that brook And put it in a song.

I wonder if the slopes of moss, In dreams so dear to me -- The falls of flower, and flower-like floss -- Are as they used to be!

I wonder if the waterfalls, The singers far and fair, That gleamed between the wet, green walls, Are still the marvels there!

Ah! let me hope that in that place Those old familiar things To which I turn a wistful face Have never taken wings.

Let me retain the fancy still That, past the lordly range, There always shines, in folds of hill, One spot secure from change!

I trust that yet the tender screen That shades a certain nook Remains, with all its gold and green, The glory of the brook.

It hides a secret to the birds And waters only known: The letters of two lovely words -- A poem on a stone.

Perhaps the lady of the past Upon these lines may light, The purest verses, and the last, That I may ever write: She need not fear a word of blame: Her tale the flowers keep -- The wind that heard me breathe her name Has been for years asleep.

But in the night, and when the rain The troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again The river in the hills; And when the day is very near, And birds are on the wing, My spirit fancies it can hear The song I cannot sing.

Hy-Brasil

"Daughter," said the ancient father, pausing by the evening sea, "Turn thy face towards the sunset -- turn thy face and kneel with me!

Prayer and praise and holy fasting, lips of love and life of light, These and these have made thee perfect -- shining saint with seraph's sight!

Look towards that flaming crescent -- look beyond that glowing s.p.a.ce -- Tell me, sister of the angels, what is beaming in thy face?"

And the daughter, who had fasted, who had spent her days in prayer, Till the glory of the Saviour touched her head and rested there, Turned her eyes towards the sea-line -- saw beyond the fiery crest, Floating over waves of jasper, far Hy-Brasil in the West.

All the calmness and the colour -- all the splendour and repose, Flowing where the sunset flowered, like a silver-hearted rose!

There indeed was singing Eden, where the great gold river runs Past the porch and gates of crystal, ringed by strong and shining ones!

There indeed was G.o.d's own garden, sailing down the sapphire sea -- Lawny dells and slopes of summer, dazzling stream and radiant tree!

Out against the hushed horizon -- out beneath the reverent day, Flamed the Wonder on the waters -- flamed, and flashed, and pa.s.sed away.

And the maiden who had seen it felt a hand within her own, And an angel that we know not led her to the lands unknown.

Never since hath eye beheld it -- never since hath mortal, dazed By its strange, unearthly splendour, on the floating Eden gazed!

Only once since Eve went weeping through a throng of glittering wings, Hath the holy seen Hy-Brasil where the great gold river sings!

Only once by quiet waters, under still, resplendent skies, Did the sister of the seraphs kneel in sight of Paradise!

She, the pure, the perfect woman, sanctified by patient prayer, Had the eyes of saints of Heaven, all their glory in her hair: Therefore G.o.d the Father whispered to a radiant spirit near -- "Show Our daughter fair Hy-Brasil -- show her this, and lead her here."

But beyond the halls of sunset, but within the wondrous West, On the rose-red seas of evening, sails the Garden of the Blest.

Still the gates of gla.s.sy beauty, still the walls of glowing light, Shine on waves that no man knows of, out of sound and out of sight.

Yet the slopes and lawns of l.u.s.tre, yet the dells of sparkling streams, Dip to tranquil sh.o.r.es of jasper, where the watching angel beams.

But, behold! our eyes are human, and our way is paved with pain, We can never find Hy-Brasil, never see its hills again!

Never look on bays of crystal, never bend the reverent knee In the sight of Eden floating -- floating on the sapphire sea!

Outre Mer

I see, as one in dreaming, A broad, bright, quiet sea; Beyond it lies a haven -- The only home for me.

Some men grow strong with trouble, But all my strength is past, And tired and full of sorrow, I long to sleep at last.

By force of chance and changes Man's life is hard at best; And, seeing rest is voiceless, The dearest thing is rest.

Beyond the sea -- behold it, The home I wish to seek, The refuge of the weary, The solace of the weak!

Sweet angel fingers beckon, Sweet angel voices ask My soul to cross the waters; And yet I dread the task.

G.o.d help the man whose trials Are tares that he must reap!

He cannot face the future -- His only hope is sleep.

Across the main a vision Of sunset coasts, and skies, And widths of waters gleaming, Enchant my human eyes.

I, who have sinned and suffered, Have sought -- with tears have sought -- To rule my life with goodness, And shape it to my thought.

And yet there is no refuge To shield me from distress, Except the realm of slumber And great forgetfulness.

Marcus Clarke.

The Song of Tigilau

The song of Tigilau the brave, Sina's wild lover, Who across the heaving wave From Samoa came over: Came over, Sina, at the setting moon!

The moon shines round and bright; She, with her dark-eyed maidens at her side, Watches the rising tide.

While balmy breathes the starry southern night, While languid heaves the lazy southern tide; The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon!

The night is past, is past and gone, The moon sinks to the West, The sea-heart beats opprest, And Sina's pa.s.sionate breast Heaves like the sea, when the pale moon has gone, Heaves like the pa.s.sionate sea, Sina, left by the moon alone!

Silver on silver sands, the rippling waters meet -- Will he come soon?

The rippling waters kiss her delicate feet, The rippling waters, lisping low and sweet, Ripple with the tide, The rising tide, The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon!

He comes! -- her lover!

Tigilau, the son of Tui Viti.

Her maidens round her hover, The rising waves her white feet cover.

O Tigilau, son of Tui Viti, Through the mellow dusk thy proas glide, So soon!

So soon by the rising tide, The rising tide, my Sina, and the setting moon!

The mooring-poles are left, The whitening waves are cleft, By the prows of Tui Viti!

By the sharp keels of Tui Viti!

Broad is the sea, and deep, The yellow Samoans sleep, But they will wake and weep -- Weep in their luxurious odorous vales, While the land breeze swells the sails Of Tui Viti!

Tui Viti -- far upon the rising tide, The rising tide -- The rising tide, my Sina, beneath the setting moon!

She leaps to meet him!

Her mouth to greet him Burns at his own.

Away! To the canoes, To the yoked war canoes!