Behind my message hard I came, And nigh had found a grave for me; But that I launched of steel and flame Did war against the wave for me.

Uprose the deep, by gale on gale, To bid me change my mind again -- He broke his teeth along my rail, And, roaring, swung behind again.

I stayed the sun at noon to tell My way across the waste of it; I read the storm before it fell And made the better haste of it.

Afar, I hailed the land at night -- The towers I built had heard of me -- And, ere my rocket reached its height, Had flashed my Love the word of me.

Earth sold her chosen men of strength (They lived and strove and died for me) To drive my road a nation's length, And toss the miles aside for me.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed their toil to serve my needs -- Too slow their fleetest flew for me -- I tired twenty smoking steeds, And bade them bait a new for me.

I sent the lightnings forth to see Where hour by hour She waited me.

Among ten million one was She, And surely all men hated me!

Dawn ran to meet me at my goal -- Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!

And little folk of little soul Rose up to buy and sell again!

THE NATIVE-BORN

We've drunk to the Queen -- G.o.d bless her! -- We've drunk to our mothers' land; We've drunk to our English brother (But he does not understand); We've drunk to the wide creation, And the Cross swings low for the morn; Last toast, and of obligation, A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them, But not their hearts that roam!

We learned from our wistful mothers To call old England "home"; We read of the English skylark, Of the spring in the English lanes, But we screamed with the painted lories As we rode on the dusty plains!

They pa.s.sed with their old-world legends -- Their tales of wrong and dearth -- Our fathers held by purchase, But we by the right of birth; Our heart's where they rocked our cradle, Our love where we spent our toil, And our faith and our hope and our honour We pledge to our native soil!

I charge you charge your gla.s.ses -- I charge you drink with me To the men of the Four New Nations, And the Islands of the Sea -- To the last least lump of coral That none may stand outside, And our own good pride shall teach us To praise our comrade's pride!

To the hush of the breathless morning On the thin, tin, crackling roofs, To the haze of the burned back-ranges And the dust of the shoeless hoofs -- To the risk of a death by drowning, To the risk of a death by drouth -- To the men of a million acres, To the Sons of the Golden South!

To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!), And the life we live and know, Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about, If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about With the weight of a single blow!

To the smoke of a hundred coasters, To the sheep on a thousand hills, To the sun that never blisters, To the rain that never chills -- To the land of the waiting spring-time, To our five-meal, meat-fed men, To the tall, deep-bosomed women, And the children nine and ten!

And the children nine and ten (Stand up!), And the life we live and know, Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about, If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about With the weight of a two-fold blow!

To the far-flung fenceless prairie Where the quick cloud-shadows trail, To our neighbour's barn in the offing And the line of the new-cut rail; To the plough in her league-long furrow With the gray Lake gulls behind -- To the weight of a half-year's winter And the warm wet western wind!

To the home of the floods and thunder, To her pale dry healing blue -- To the lift of the great Cape combers, And the smell of the baked Karroo.

To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head -- To the reef and the water-gold, To the last and the largest Empire, To the map that is half unrolled!

To our dear dark foster-mothers, To the heathen songs they sung -- To the heathen speech we babbled Ere we came to the white man's tongue.

To the cool of our deep verandas -- To the blaze of our jewelled main, To the night, to the palms in the moonlight, And the fire-fly in the cane!

To the hearth of our people's people -- To her well-ploughed windy sea, To the hush of our dread high-altar Where The Abbey makes us We; To the grist of the slow-ground ages, To the gain that is yours and mine -- To the Bank of the Open Credit, To the Power-house of the Line!

We've drunk to the Queen -- G.o.d bless her! -- We've drunk to our mothers' land; We've drunk to our English brother (And we hope he'll understand).

We've drunk as much as we're able, And the Cross swings low for the morn; Last toast -- and your foot on the table! -- A health to the Native-born!

A health to the Native-born (Stand up!), We're six white men arow, All bound to sing o' the little things we care about, All bound to fight for the little things we care about With the weight of a six-fold blow!

By the might of our cable-tow (Take hands!), From the Orkneys to the Horn, All round the world (and a little loop to pull it by), All round the world (and a little strap to buckle it), A health to the Native-born!

THE KING

"Farewell, Romance!" the Cave-men said; "With bone well carved he went away, Flint arms the ign.o.ble arrowhead, And jasper tips the spear to-day.

Changed are the G.o.ds of Hunt and Dance, And he with these. Farewell, Romance!"

"Farewell, Romance!" the Lake-folk sighed; "We lift the weight of flatling years; The caverns of the mountain-side Hold him who scorns our hutted piers.

Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell, Guard ye his rest. Romance, farewell!"

"Farewell, Romance!" the Soldier spoke; "By sleight of sword we may not win, But scuffle 'mid uncleanly smoke Of arquebus and culverin.

Honour is lost, and none may tell Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!"

"Farewell, Romance!" the Traders cried; Our keels ha' lain with every sea; The dull-returning wind and tide Heave up the wharf where we would be; The known and noted breezes swell Our trudging sail. Romance, farewell!"

"Good-bye, Romance!" the Skipper said; "He vanished with the coal we burn; Our dial marks full steam ahead, Our speed is timed to half a turn.

Sure as the ferried barge we ply 'Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye!"

"Romance!" the season-tickets mourn, "_He_ never ran to catch his train, But pa.s.sed with coach and guard and horn -- And left the local -- late again!"

Confound Romance! . . . And all unseen Romance brought up the nine-fifteen.

His hand was on the lever laid, His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks, His whistle waked the s...o...b..und grade, His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks; By dock and deep and mine and mill The Boy-G.o.d reckless laboured still!

Robed, crowned and throned, he wove his spell, Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled, With unconsidered miracle, Hedged in a backward-gazing world; Then taught his chosen bard to say: "Our King was with us -- yesterday!"

THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS

Away by the lands of the j.a.panee Where the paper lanterns glow And the crews of all the shipping drink In the house of Blood Street Joe, At twilight, when the landward breeze Brings up the harbour noise, And ebb of Yokohama Bay Swigs chattering through the buoys, In Cisco's Dewdrop Dining-Rooms They tell the tale anew Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight, When the _Baltic_ ran from the _Northern Light_ And the _Stralsund_ fought the two.

Now this is the Law of the Muscovite, that he proves with shot and steel, When ye come by his isles in the Smoky Sea ye must not take the seal, Where the gray sea goes nakedly between the weed-hung shelves, And the little blue fox he is bred for his skin and the seal they breed for themselves; For when the _matkas_ seek the sh.o.r.e to drop their pups aland, The great man-seal haul out of the sea, a-roaring, band by band; And when the first September gales have slaked their rutting-wrath, The great man-seal haul back to the sea and no man knows their path.

Then dark they lie and stark they lie -- rookery, dune, and floe, And the Northern Lights come down o' nights to dance with the houseless snow; And G.o.d Who clears the grounding berg and steers the grinding floe, He hears the cry of the little kit-fox and the wind along the snow.

But since our women must walk gay and money buys their gear, The sealing-boats they filch that way at hazard year by year.

English they be and j.a.panee that hang on the Brown Bear's flank, And some be Scot, but the worst of the lot, and the boldest thieves, be Yank!

It was the sealer _Northern Light_, to the Smoky Seas she bore, With a stovepipe stuck from a starboard port and the Russian flag at her fore.

(_Baltic_, _Stralsund_, and _Northern Light_ -- oh! they were birds of a feather -- Slipping away to the Smoky Seas, three seal-thieves together!) And at last she came to a sandy cove and the Baltic lay therein, But her men were up with the herding seal to drive and club and skin.

There were fifteen hundred skins abeach, cool pelt and proper fur, When the _Northern Light_ drove into the bight and the sea-mist drove with her.