Yes, let Art go, till once again Through fearless heads and hands The toil of millions and the pain Be pa.s.sed from out the lands:

Till from the few their plunder falls To those who've toiled and earned But misery's hopeless intervals From those who've robbed and spurned.

Yes, let Art go, without a fear, Like autumn flowers we burn, For, with her reawakening year, Be sure she will return!-

Return, but greater, n.o.bler yet Because her laurel crown With dew and not with blood is wet, And as our queen sit down!

"HENRY GEORGE."

(_Melbourne_.)

I came to buy a book. It was a shop Down in a narrow quiet street, and here They kept, I knew, these socialistic books.

I entered. All was bare, but clean and neat.

The shelves were ranged with unsold wares; the counter Held a few sheets and papers. Here and there Hung prints and calendars. I rapped, and straight A young girl came out through the inner door.

She had a clear and simple face; I saw She had no beauty, loveliness, nor charm, But, as your eyes met those grey light-lit eyes Like to a mountain spring so pure, you thought: "He'd be a clever man who looked, and lied!"

I asked her for the book. . . . We spoke a little. . . .

Her words were as her face was, as her eyes.

Yes, she'd read many books like this of mine: Also some poets, Sh.e.l.ley, Byron too, And Tennyson, but 'poets only dreamed!'

Thus, then, we talked, until by chance I spoke A phrase and then a name. 'Twas "Henry George."

Her face lit up. O it was beautiful, Or never woman's face was! "Henry George?"

She said. And then a look, a flush, a smile, Such as sprung up in Magdalene's cheek When some voice uttered Jesus, made her angel.

She turned and pointed up the counter. I, Loosing mine eyes from that ensainted face, Looked also. 'Twas a print, a common print, The head and shoulders of some man. She said, Quite in a whisper: "_That's him_, _Henry George_!"

Darling, that in this life of wrong and woe, The lovely woman-soul within you brooded And wept and loved and hated and pitied, And knew not what its helplessness could do, Its helplessness, its sheer bewilderment- That then those eyes should fall, those angel eyes, On one who'd brooded, wept, loved, hated, pitied, Even as you had, but therefrom had sprung A hope, a plan, a scheme to right this wrong, And make this woe less hateful to the sun- And that pure soul had found its Master thus To listen to, remember, watch and love, And trust the dawn that rose up through the dark: O this was good For me to see, as for some weary hopeless Longer and toiler for "the Kingdom of Heaven"

To stand some lifeless twilight hour, and hear, There in the dim-lit house of Lazarus, Mary who said: "Thus, thus, he looked, he spake, The Master!"-So to hear her rapturous words, And gaze upon her up-raised heavenly face!

WILLIAM WALLACE.

(_For the Ballarat statue of him_.)

This is Scotch William Wallace. It was he Who in dark hours first raised his face to see: Who watched the English tyrant n.o.bles spurn, Steel-clad, with iron hoofs the Scottish free:

Who armed and drilled the simple footman Kern, Yea, bade in blood and rout the proud Knight learn His Feudalism was dead, and Scotland stand Dauntless to wait the day of Bannockburn!

O Wallace, peerless lover of thy land, We need thee still, thy moulding brain and hand!

For us, thy poor, again proud tyrants spurn, The robber rich, a yet more hateful band!

THE AUSTRALIAN FLAG.

Pure blue flag of heaven With your silver stars, Not beside those crosses'

Blood-stained torture-bars:

Not beside the token The foul sea-harlot gave, Pure blue flag of heaven, Must you ever wave!

No, but young exultant, Free from care and crime, The soulless selfish England Of this later time:

No, but, faithful, n.o.ble, Rising from her grave, Flag of light and liberty, For ever must you wave!

TO AN OLD FRIEND IN ENGLAND.

"ESAU."

Was it for nothing in the years gone by, O my love, O my friend, You thrilled me with your n.o.ble words of faith?- Hope beyond life, and love, love beyond death!

Yet now I shudder, and yet you did not die, O my friend, O my love!

Was it for nothing in the dear dead years, O my love, O my friend, I kissed you when you wrung my heart from me, And gave my stubborn hand where trust might be?

Yet then I smiled, and see, these bitter tears, O my friend, O my love!

No bitter words to say to you have I, O my love, O my friend!

That faith, that hope, that love was mine, not yours!

And yet that kiss, that clasp endures, endures.

I have no bitter words to say. Good-bye, O my friend, O my love!

AT THE SEAMEN'S UNION. {84} "THE SEAMEN AND THE MINERS."

. . . One rises now and speaks: "The Cause is one- _Labour o'er all the earth_! Shan't we, then, share With these, whose very flesh and blood's our own, All that we can of what we have and are?

"What is it that their work is in the earth, Down in its depths, and ours is on the sea?

The fight they fight is ours; their worth our worth; Their loss our loss. We help them! They are we!

"We help them!-Ay, and when our hour too breaks, And on to every ship that ploughs the wave We put our hand at last, our hand that takes Its own, will they forget the help we gave?

"And, if our robber lords would rob us still With the foul h.o.a.rd of beasts without a soul, They may find leprous hands to work their will, But, for their ships, where will they find the coal?"

"Help them!" the voices cry. They help them. Here, Resolute, stern, menacing, hark the sound!

Look, 'tis the simple fearlessness of fear- Dark faces and deep voices all around.

TO HIS LOVE.

"Teach me, love, to be true; Teach me, love, to love; Teach me to be pure like you.

It will be more than enough!

"Ah, and in days to come, Give me, my seraph, too, A son n.o.bler than I, A daughter true like you: