Read Ebook: The Bush Fire and Other Verses by Lee Ida

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Ebook has 130 lines and 15806 words, and 3 pages

Clang! Clang! Clang! O hush my wooden shoon! When gently I swing the sacred door, And kneel me down on the marble floor To beg a heavenly boon.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Be silent, wooden shoon; And cease your noise while I say my prayers, When vespers soar through the winding stairs, Up to the lonely moon.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Good things all end too soon; I bow the knee as I say good-bye, To holy place, with its spire on high: Such restless wooden shoon!

Clang! Clang! Clang! Work, morning, night and noon; For daily bread, and for nightly rest! My heart is cheered and my soul is blest, Ring out, O wooden shoon!

PHANTOMS OF THE SEA.

Black phantoms gather o'er the sea, And move in groups mysteriously; With shears in hand they watching wait. The night grows old; the hour is late; The ocean foams with angry glee, Its waters roll tempestuously, And dash the white salt-spangled spray Against the rocks, in rudest play.

The glimmering light around, below, A sad wan face there fain would show; But darkness claims the night's last hour, Enchaining it with mystic power. In rugged outlines where they stand, Tall, spectral cliffs shut out the land, And shelter lend those forms who creep On evil wings above the deep.

All noiselessly, with one consent, Their work but on one object bent, They carry out a sovereign will, And never rest, and ne'er are still. They look like beings who frequent A nether world--their time is spent In weaving sorrow, grief, and pain For those who sail the boundless main.

Quite unaware, from out the night, A ship glides forth so tall and white Amid the darkness. Straightway she Steers headlong to Eternity. The vessel bears across the deep A freight, who all unconscious sleep. Gray gloom hath topped each frowning height Which rising phantoms hide from sight; With outstretched hands in air they loom, The ship to beckon to its doom. But no, not yet; 'tis not to be; Thou'rt cheated! Look, thou angry sea! Above the heights, there doth appear A form, upholding high a spear Of sparkling light! It is the morn! The night is dead! The day is born! "Begone!" she cries, her hand she rears; "Bend low your heads, let fall your shears! Away, you evil-meaning bands! Aye! Hide your faces in your hands. Together link yourselves and flee, And leave the brave in peace with me."

The ship is stayed. The helm they turn, While sailors' hearts within them burn To see the rocks, the seething foam, The whirlpool eddying round its home, And giant cliffs so near at hand. A treacherous path those spirits planned, To lead them onward to their doom. There soon they must have found a tomb, Had not the morning's early light Reclaimed them from the clutch of night.

THE WATER FROG.

I wander far by bank and stream, Then paddle back thro' wave and foam, Cross pebble stones, where waters leap; A froth-clad doorway hides my home. 'Neath fern leaves' shade I gently dream, While circling weeds around me throng; The restless waters softly flow, Their babbling sounds like some sweet song.

When stronger grows the northern breeze, The driven stream with noisy roar, Blown foremost by the boisterous wind, Bursts headlong thro' my shivered door. A twisted twig I hop or climb, 'Tis maddening pace at times we ride; First, twirling gaily round in air, Then smoothly on the waters glide.

Great frowning rocks above look down: With scornful glance they watch my glee, Aloud I croak, and broadly smile. What matter if they angry be? Our fleeting life is far too short, Tho' merry as it well can be; The good, together with the bad, Can sweeten still this world for me.

And when I reach my cosy home, The bubbling waters shout "Hurrah," And hurrying onward, tell the tale To other streams both near and far; How I have braved the tempest's din. And now beneath the lofty pine, While angry thunders make reply, In sweet contentment I recline.

THE FOREST KING'S LAMENT.

Where linger the people I once called my own? In depths of the forest I stand here alone; Where waits my beloved one, my queen and my bride? 'Twas seldom she wandered thus far from my side. I hear not, I see not the world where they live; No day-dream reveals it, or comfort will give To passionate longing; hope dies in the heart Of man when he dwells from his fellows apart. With weary complaining I question again; 'Mid rivers and mountains I hear a refrain From cliff to the valley seem clearly to ring-- "Alone in thy kingdom where once thou wert king!"

From over wide seas the white chieftains had come To rest in our mountains and claim our dear home; 'Twas morn in the vale when we rose up to fight, 'Twas darker than darkness, that fell ere the night. Our farewells were short, as thro' thicket we sprang, All armed with sharp spears and the curved boomerang; My people loud shouted their battle-cry old, A quick answer came, by the bullet soon told! I prayed as I fell, "May I speedily die With those who, around me, now silently lie Like reeds in a tempest, struck low by the rain, Who never to life will awaken again!"

I dragged myself back, yet scarce knew it was day, Or if any escaped from the heat of the fray; No voice there I heard, not a sigh, not a sound, As fainting, I lay on the grass-trodden ground. But morning brought life, and the noonday gave strength, The day slowly passed, and with evening at length I found I could rise, though enfeebled and lame. Though why should I value that newly found breath? For bitter is life to me, sweeter is death, And if I felt sure I should find them at last, With joy would I join those true friends of the past.

I've sought the deep hollows, the gorge, and ravine, From mallee to plain not a creature is seen. White chieftains have journeyed and left me to rest, They scour all the country from east to the west. Alone in my camp, now, when fadeth the day, I sit in the firelight the lizard to flay; Tho' nights are as fine as were those we could choose To dance the corroboree, feast or carouse Around the bush fire piled with myall and pine, And box, red and white, or the cedar-wood fine! Once danced we the war-dance from dark till the dawn, And stayed not to rest until sunlight was born.

Warm sunshine still plays among myriad leaves, Where silver-like thread the tarantula weaves; I see thro' the green the bright web he hath spun, And kingfishers dazzling the light of the sun; From nests in the banks quick they flash in and out. While jackass sits laughing with comical shout 'Mid branches o'erhead, wearing plumage of brown, The river beneath floweth steadily down. Thus murmuring, the ripples bring tears to my eye, They sound like the tones of my loved one's reply; I turn right away, just to stifle the pain Of knowing she never will hear them again.

Alone on the marshes the water-hens float, With cresses and rushes surrounding their throat, They pluck at the circles of mud-coloured slime, Which harden and bake in the summer's sweet time. If water be scarce, or if river run dry, There sandpiper, too, on occasion will hie, And heron or pelican often be seen, Food patiently seeking in silence serene. At times I do wonder if haply they know What power has arisen my sway to o'erthrow?-- What memories they stir! When they rise on the wing I dream of the days when I reigned here as king.

The wattle's scent mingles with that of the briar, Where tower the white gum trees in noble attire: In days when we hunted the emu abreast, 'Twas under their shade we would lie down and rest, Till curlew at evening poured wail upon wail That circled the forest and crept thro' the vale, Then, meeting the echoes amid the wide plain, Would rise there and fall there, and circle again. Do yearnings increasing disturb the strong breeze, That moans in the brushwood and grieves in the trees? Its sob overcomes me, no more can I sing, But bend low in anguish where once I stood king!

THE DROVER'S VISION.

The drover's camp one evening in hushful calm lay still, Its fitful flickering firelight made bright the western hill; The bronzed and bearded drover had stretched himself to rest, In childlike peaceful slumber, his arms across his breast. His saddle formed a pillow, the thick, coarse grass his bed, While mounting sparks were casting a halo round his head.

Then sweetest dreams came pouring to charm the weary brain, He saw his mob of cattle outspread upon the plain; But curling whip lay silent, and watchful dog slept sound, As deeper grew the stillness which held its sway around: Thro' forest paths an angel had sped with hurried haste, The twining leaves he forced apart until he reached the waste.

Past many growing townships, o'er tracks of sun-dried plain, And rocky hills and rivers, he brought his tale of pain. Long shadows rose to meet him; in groups they gathered round, While trees unbent and listened in reverence o'er the ground, Where hallowed steps had fallen, where an angel late had trod, Whose holy feet with pity, and love, and faith were shod.

The drover heard those footsteps; he felt an icy breath, And, turning round in greeting, beheld the face of Death, A vision bending o'er him, and holding, gently down, A tiny suffering infant whose life had well-nigh flown. It raised its fragile body, and softly turned to rest Beside him, closely nestling against his massive breast.

And, as the shadows parted, the small wan features smiled Upon him, oh! so sweetly, and he saw it was his child. A moment more, it left him, and thro' the dimness fled Back to the Angel vision, with tiny hands outspread. The white-robed arms enfold it, and glances sweet and rare Fall on the stricken drover, who lies in darkness there.

When morning breaks, the sunshine streams over a moving throng Of cattle pressing onward, while breezes bear along The sound of parrots' chattering; and sweet toned bell-pbirds sing, Like chimes on a Sabbath morning, their notes through the bushland ring, And tall trees wave their branches athwart the rosy light, Forgetting in their pleasure, the sorrow of the night.

The drover's world is darkened, his heart is wrung with pain, As gazing o'er the hill-side where his ash-strewn camp had lain, He thinks of the vanished spirit and heavily droops his head, While sadness sits in his saddle--he knows his child is dead. He prays with fervent pleadings that his babe may stay its flight In God's own Heavenly Kingdom--His home of love and light.

THE HOMESTEAD.

Upon the giant boulder's flattened stone, Which bars the stream, in ages that have gone, Where cool soft shade the river oak tree throws, 'Twas there the black man's spear uplifted rose, And pierced the darting fish with matchless aim, Then stooped his dusky arm his spoil to claim. When summer evening too his world made bright, And bathed the trees and flowers in crimson light, The sunset tingeing red each leaf and bough, And all the bush was beautiful as now, Often he rose and wandered by the bank; Where grew the native thistles tall and rank, With blithesome step, and sure unfaltering tread, He traced a winding road; about his head The trailing creepers from the trees hung low, And snow-white petals brushed his swarthy brow. The hazy sun-spots danced and round him played, While silken cobwebs shimmered through the shade. And here and there the fragrant wattle leant Across his path, as leisurely he went, To where the open plains their limits kept, Above the dense growth which the hillside swept. Fleet would his dogs, with noisy bark, pursue The bustard wild or startled kangaroo. But time has changed! The black man's race is run: No more at even, when the dying sun Is sinking to its rest, will he be seen In that fair spot: the tufted rushes green May conclaves form upon the wide expanse, Still in the river-bend the fish may glance, And waters chant their rhyming lullaby; But not for him. He never will descry The painted plumage on the parrot's wing, Nor listen where the woodland echoes ring, With shouts of laughter from that peering bird Who sits, convulsed, in attitude absurd, Amid the leaves which crown the shrunken limb That slanting reaches to the waters' brim. Advancing Time has turned another page, And gives the land a new, a greater age.

Already too that young land, having past Her childhood, stands to claim her place at last, Already walks at her great Mother's side Among the nations in majestic pride, While Britain glances on that comely face Whose every feature bears her stamp of race. She guidance gave her through her infant days, And lit her path with all ungrudging rays. In early years the daughter learnt full well To whom to trust her steps when darkness fell; While knowledge of the help and love she drew From out her Mother's breast woke fondness true. Yet still the daughter wore a listless air, Dependent, and too young for thought or care, Till came o'er foaming seas a rude alarm, "Foes taunt thy Mother with uplifted arm!" The strength of her great parent she knew well Could all unaided threats and foes repel! But now she starts, stung by the hostile words Of those who stand around with naked swords! Upstirred, the ancient pride within her veins, And courage quick, from caution snatched the reins. She called her sons, the towns, the bushland through; Called them to arms! Australians brave and true! Resentment fierce, which could no longer hold Itself in check, burned wild and uncontrolled, That covert acts a noble queen distrest, Or robbed fair England of her quiet rest. Her sons obey, striplings and men full-grown Prepare for war, and conflicts yet unknown. With fearless mien, and flashing angry eye, Each girds a soldier's sword upon his thigh. A heightened blush o'erspreads his glowing cheek, Erect he stands, though passing young to speak, While from his brow he sweeps the kiss of sleep, Which lingered there in languid rapture deep, And filled his senses, letting him forget The duty manhood made a sacred debt. Quickly he sends across the billows wild This message to the Mother from her child: "Think not that I can dwell in calm repose While friends around thee waver, and rude foes Goad thee to anger with coarse gibe and leer, And flaunt before thine eyes the lifted spear. From thee I rose: for thee I can but fall! Thy need suffices for my battle-call." The tones all quickly tell the sword gleams bare Within the youthful hand uplifted there. Her fond smile deepens as the Mother hears Still further comfort which the ocean bears. Her proudest glory is her children's love, Who with their life-blood loyalty would prove. When thro' the arid desert's sandy waste The Royal standard presses in its haste Around the Mother's flag, the foeman sees Her daughter's banner floating in the breeze: Those soldier-children in a southern clime Sacred will hold that heritage sublime. Let England's enemies remember well The fortunes which the elder flag befell On battle-fields, in troubled days of old, Nor think her ancient spirit has waxed cold. The past, the present, and the days to come, Will show how sons of England guard their home!

Great England! not thy sea-girt shore alone, That stretches round the Queenly Sovereign's throne, But all the widening sway, and boundless grace, Of those vast countries which a world embrace, Where dwell the sons of Britain. Ill betide Who speaks against their country strong and wide! Throughout the world one patriotic zeal Binds the vast empire, as with links of steel, To that sweet peaceful Isle we call our home. Thither, from mountain top, or crested foam, We turn our thoughts , And cherish high what there our fathers won. If far away we watch the sunlight fade, Beyond the range , We thrust the shadows back, and think the while How men forget their fears to win her smile. What danger will they face if to her name Twill add new lustre, or still wider fame! Or if we stand within the city's pale Where once rode armoured knights in coated mail, Of those we think beneath its sacred dome, So long since gone, who also called it home! And proud we feel in this brief passing hour, That God with bounteous grace has given us power To call it ours! His strong far-reaching hand Has kept a faithful watch above this land.

Light has departed! In the western hills Its place around the homestead darkness fills; Save in the windows, whence the smiling lamp Outshines the gloom and cheers the distant camp, Where with their flocks the drovers spend the night In restful slumber until morning light. One stage is finished! stars gleam in the sky As weary heads on pillowing saddles lie. Around the men sweet dreams their cobwebs spin, And soon shut out the day's unrestful din. All through the air a new-born stillness grows As sleep, around, a mystic thraldom throws: Above, below, her soothing angels spread, On beast, and bird, o'er things alive and dead, Their blissful wings, while voices never cease To chant in silvery tones a song of peace.

THE BUSHMAN'S WOOING.

"Short grows my leave," the bushman said, "My love I will avow; When I come back, the maid I'll wed, If she will hear me now." So fair this maiden was, and bright, She'd suitors more than one, But when the bushman rode in sight, She met him there alone.

She heard him speak of golden love, A blessing, deep and true, Such love was theirs, he fain would prove If she would let him woo And claim her there, when work was done. The maiden glanced adown; "Not thus," she said, "must I be won," And smoothed her silken gown.

Then angry spake the man aloud; He saw the hand, so small; While o'er his face there came a cloud, These words his lips let fall, "A stockman may seem rough or rude, Yet all the while be bold, 'Tis not because the quartz is crude, It can't contain the gold.

"A bushman's life is wild and free,-- That easy is to read,-- Don't live to learn just what you see, But take the will for deed. Now all this time I know you meant, Not 'No' to say, but 'Yes!'" Then as he spake, the tall man bent His head, her hand to press.

The maiden would not seem to see, But drew her hand aside, "The man I love must courteous be, Ere I will be his bride. You say the life is rough and wild, You think the man is bold; I still could wish the stone were filed That one might see the gold!

"To-morrow morn I'll hear your tale, And then, perhaps, I'll say A word of comfort if you fail To win my love to-day. My heart is not a paltry toy, Just worn upon the sleeve, To give away to man or boy, Who barely asks my leave."

"At morn," he said, "I take the sheep Beyond the Queensland line; We start before you wake from sleep; Just place your hand on mine, And say, 'God bless you, Jim, to-night, And bring you safely back;' I then can face the hottest fight Or meet the fiercest black."

All anger from his face had fled, His eyes with sweetness shone, The maiden's cheek went white, then red, She stood as turned to stone. Her lips they moved, as if to say Some words to reach his ear, But minutes pass, and still they stay Pressed close as if with fear.

One moment more, and then he knelt Low at her feet to ask The blessing sweet, for still he felt 'Twould lighten all his task. Her hand so small was stretched out there, And laid between his own, And while he held it, white and fair, This maiden's pride had flown.

He felt her trembling fingers move, Yet low he humbly bent Before her there to prove his love, The while she grew content. And then she spoke, he scarce could hear, Her voice fell soft and sweet, "Twas 'Yes' I meant, I cannot bear To see you at my feet."

THE VIOLET'S MESSAGE.

All radiant was the garden with choice and precious flowers; Rare blossoms in their "houses" enwove resplendent bowers. They were the rich man's treasures, he gave them every care, And yet the dew of heaven could never reach them there. They did not feel the raindrops, or sunshine warmly bright, Nor winced beneath the dangers of a cold and frosty night. For all were closely tended and spared from every ill, A gardener's hand had planted each flower with dainty skill.

Now outside in the meadow, a modest violet grew, And no one ever watched it, for no one ever knew; Still there it lived and flourished, and scent of flowerets small Was carried by the breezes across the high stone wall. It reached the great man's window, was wafted thro' the door, And made the air seem fresher than ever it was before. It reached the great man's heart, too, and whispered in his ear, To tell a loving message, in accents sweet and clear.

He saw once more his birthplace and childhood's happy years; 'Tis not a vision only, the brain both sees and hears. There stands the old white cottage, long vanished from his sight, He feels the cool wind blowing across the fields at night. In waters of the streamlet that graced the woodland scene, He seemed to see reflected the man he might have been. He sighed, "O gentle violet, so tender and so true! Of all my rich collection, not one compares with you. Your coming here has taught me, how I may walk each day, The paths where you are lovely in your sweet simple way."

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