The Poems Of Henry Kendall Part 44

She mourneth for the lovely day, Now deep in darkness shaded; She sheds the dewy tear because Of morning's mantle faded; She misses from her breast the garb In which the moon array'd it.

The evening queen will strive in vain To break the spell which bound her; A million stars can never throw Departed warmth around her; They all must pa.s.s away and leave The earth as they had found her.

But why should gentle Nature weep That night has overtaken The wearied world that needed sleep, Refreshed to re-awaken, So richer light might burst around, The gloomy shadows breaking?

Oh, can she not from yonder sky That gleams above her, borrow A single ray, or find a way To check the tear of sorrow?

A beam of hope would last her till The dawning of to-morrow.

The Late W. V. Wild, Esq.

Sad faces came round, and I dreamily said "Though the harp of my country now slumbers, Some hand will pa.s.s o'er it, in love for the dead, And attune it to sorrowful numbers!"

But the hopes that I clung to are withering things, For the days have gone by with a cloud on their wings, And the touch of a bard is unknown to the strings-- _Oh, why art thou silent, Australia?_

The leaves of the autumn are scattering fast, The willows look barren and lonely; But I dream a sad dream of my friend of the past, And his form I can dwell upon only!

In the strength of his youth I can see him go by.

There is health on the cheek, and a fire in the eye-- Oh, who would have thought that such beauty could die!

_Ah, mourn for thy n.o.blest, Australia!_

A strange shadow broods o'er the desolate earth, And the cypresses tremble and quiver; But my heart waxeth dark with the thoughts of the worth That has left us for ever and ever!

A dull cloud creepeth close to the moon, And the winter winds pa.s.s with a shuddering croon-- Oh, why was he s.n.a.t.c.hed from his brothers so soon?

_Ah, weep for thy lost one, Australia!_

How weary we grow when we turn to reflect Upon what we have seen and believed in; When harping on promises hopelessly wrecked, And the things we have all been deceived in!

When a voice that I loved lingers near to me yet!

And a kind, handsome face which I'll never forget-- Can I wake to the present and stifle regret-- _Can I smother these feelings, Australia?_

It is useless to grieve o'er the light that has fled But the harp of my country still slumbers; And I thought that some bard in his love for the dead, Would have thrilled it to sorrowful numbers!

Lo, the hopes that I clung to are withering things For the days have gone by with a cloud on their wings, And my hand is too feeble to strike at the strings-- _Oh, why art thou silent, Australia?_

Astarte

Across the dripping ridges, O, look, luxurious night!

She comes, the bright-haired beauty, My luminous delight!

My luminous delight!

So hush, ye sh.o.r.es, your roar, That my soul may sleep, forgetting Dead Love's wild Nevermore!

Astarte, Syrian sister, Your face is wet with tears; I think you know the secret One heart hath held for years!

One heart hath held for years!

But hide your hapless love, And my sweet--my Syrian sister, Dead Love's wild Nevermore!

Ah, Helen Hope in heaven, My queen of long ago, I've swooned with adoration, But could not tell you so, Or dared not tell you so, My radiant queen of yore!

And you've pa.s.sed away and left me Dead Love's wild Nevermore!

Astarte knoweth, darling, Of eyes that once did weep, What time entranced Pa.s.sion Hath kissed your lips in sleep; Hath kissed your lips in sleep; But now those tears are o'er, Gone, my saint, with many a moan to Dead Love's wild Nevermore!

If I am past all crying, What thoughts are maddening me, Of you, my darling, dying Upon the lone, wide sea, Upon the lone, wide sea, Ah! hush, ye sh.o.r.es, your roar, That my soul may sleep, forgetting Dead Love's wild Nevermore!

Australian War Song

Men have said that ye were sleeping-- Hurl, Australians, back the lie; Whet the swords you have in keeping, Forward stand to do or die!

Hear ye not, across the ocean, Echoes of the distant fray, Sounds of loud and fierce commotion, Swiftly sweeping on the way?

Hearts have woke from sluggish trances, Woke to know their native worth; Freedom with her train advances-- Freedom newly sprung to birth.

Despots start from thrones affrighted-- Tyrants hear the angry tread; Where the slaves, whose prayers were slighted, Marching--draw the sword instead.

If the men of other nations Dash their fetters to the ground; When the foeman seeks your stations, Will you willing slaves be found?

You the sons of hero fathers-- Sires that bled at Waterloo!

No! Your indignation gathers-- To your old traditions true; Should the cannon's iron rattle Sound between your harbour doors, You will rise to wage the battle In a just and righteous cause.

Patriot fires will scorch Oppression Should it dare to draw too near; And the tide of bold Aggression _Must_ be stayed from coming here.

Look upon familiar places, Mountain, river, hill and glade; Look upon those beauteous faces, Turning up to you for aid.

Think ye, in the time of danger, When that threatening moment comes-- Will ye let the heartless stranger Drive your kindred from their homes?

By the prayers which rise above you, When you face him on the sh.o.r.e, By the forms of those that love you-- Greet him with the rifle's roar!

While an arm can wield a sabre, While you yet can lift a hand, Strike and teach your hostile neighbour, This is Freedom's chosen land.

The Ivy on the Wall

The verdant ivy clings around Yon moss be-mantled wall, As if it sought to hide the stones, That crumbling soon must fall: That relic of a bygone age Now tottering to decay, Has but one friend--the ivy--left.

The rest have pa.s.sed away.

The fairy flowers that once did bloom And smile beneath its shade; They lingered till the autumn came, And autumn saw them fade: The emerald leaves that blushed between-- The winds away have blown; But yet to cheer the mournful scene, The ivy liveth on.

Thus heavenly hope will still survive, When earthly joys have fled; And all the flow'ry dreams of youth Lie withering and dead.

When Winter comes--it twines itself Around the human heart; And like the ivy on the wall Will ne'er from thence depart.

The Australian Emigrant