"AUSTRALIA: VICTORIA-NEW SOUTH WALES-QUEENSLAND."

THE OUTCASTS.

(_Melbourne_.)

Here to the parks they come, The scourings of the town, Like weary wounded animals Seeking where to lie them down.

Brothers, let us take together An easeful period.

There is worse than to be as we are- Cast out, not of men but of G.o.d!

VICTORIA TO JAMES MOORHOUSE, {76}

_Bishop of Melbourne_, _who left Melbourne for the Bishopric of Manchester_, 10_th_ _March_ 1886.

He came, a stranger, and we gave him welcome More as loved friend than rumour's honoured guest.

He spoke! Were we, then, all so slack to listen?

To hail him as our wisest, n.o.blest, best?

_Why did he leave us_?

He toiled! And we, we under such a leader, Forgot all other creeds, but that he taught, And proud of our clear answer to his summons, Forgot all other fights but that he fought!

_Why did he leave us_?

He wearied! 'Twas too great, he said, the burden.

We saw it and we cried with anxious love; "What does he (Let him back!) down in the battle?

Is not the general's place at rest above?"

_Why did he leave us_?

He left us for a "wider sphere of labour!"

A tinsel seat within a House that shakes, To herd with priests meal-mouthed, with lords and liars That still would bind a nation's chain that breaks!

_Why did he leave us_?

Farewell, then! Are there any to reproach you In all this facile crowd that weeps and cheers?

Not one! But, ah you yet shall listen sadly To an echo falling faint through the dead years:- _Why did he leave us_?

IN THE SEA-GARDENS.

(_Sydney_.) "THE MAN OF THE NATION."

Yonder the band is playing And the fine young people walk.

They are envying each other and talking Their pretty empty talk.

There, in the shade on the outskirts, Stretched on the gra.s.s, I see A man with a slouch hat, smoking.

That is the man for me!

That is the Man of the Nation; He works and much endures.

When all the rest is rotten, He rises and cuts and cures.

He's the soldier of the Crimea, Fighting to honour fools; He's the grappler and strangler of Lee Lord of the terrible tools.

He's in all the conquered nations That have won their own at last, And in all that yet shall win it.

And the world by him goes past!

O strong sly world, this nameless Still, much-enduring Man, Is the hand of G.o.d that shall clutch you For all you have done, or can!

"UPSTARTS."

What? do you say that we, the toilers-the slaves- (Why strain at the gnat name Who swallow the camel thing your pocket craves?)- That we are "just the same,"

(Nay, worse) when power is ours and wealth-that we Are harder masters still, More keen to ring her last from misery, More greedy of our will?

'Tis true! And when you see men so-see _us_ Sneer at us, call us swine!- "_How we must love you who have made us thus_, _You may perhaps divine_!"

LABOUR-CAPITAL-LAND.

In that rich archipelago of sea With fiery hills, thick woods wherein the mias {79a} Browses along the trees, and G.o.d-like men Leave monuments of speech too large for us, {79b} There are strange forest-trees. Far up, their roots Spread from the central trunk, and settle down Deep in the life-fed earth, seventy feet below.

In the past days here grew another tree, On whose high fork the parasitic seed Fell and sprang up, and, finding life and strength In the disease, decrepitude and death Of that it fed on, utterly consumed it, And stands the monument of Nature's crime!

So Labour with his parasites, the two Great swollen robbers, Land and Capital, Stands to the gaze of men but as a heap Of rotted dust whose only use must be To rich the roots of the proud stem that killed it! {80}

AUSTRALIA.

I see a land of desperate droughts and floods: I see a land where need keeps spreading round, And all but giants perish in the stress: I see a land where more, and more, and more The demons, Earth and Wealth, grow bloat and strong.

I see a land that lies a helpless prey To wealthy cliques and gamblers and their slaves, The huckster politicians: a poor land That less and less can make her heart-wish law.

Yea, but I see a land where some few brave Raise clear eyes to the Struggle that must come, Reaching firm hands to draw the doubters in, Preaching the gospel: "Drill and drill and drill!"

Yea, but I see a land where best of all The hope of victory burns strong and bright!

ART.

"Yes, let Art go, if it must be That with it men must starve- If Music, Painting, Poetry Spring from the wasted hearth!"