A VISION OUT WEST
Far reaching down's a solid sea sunk everlastingly to rest,
And yet whose billows seem to be for ever heaving toward the west
The tiny fieldmice make their nests, the summer insects buzz and hum
Among the hollows and the crests of this wide ocean stricken dumb,
Whose rollers move for ever on, though sullenly, with fettered wills,
To break in voiceless wrath upon the crumbled bases of far hills,
Where rugged outposts meet the shock, stand fast, and hurl them back again,
An avalanche of earth and rock, in tumbled fragments on the plain;
But, never heeding the rebuff, to right and left they kiss the feet
Of hanging cliff and bouldered bluff till on the farther side they meet,
And once again resume their march to where the afternoon sun dips
Toward the west, and Heaven's arch salutes the Earth with ruddy lips.
Such is the scene that greets the eye: wide sweep of plain to left and right:
In front low hills that seem to lie wrapped in a veil of yellow light—
Low peaks that through the summer haze frown from their fancied altitude,
As some small potentate might gaze upon a ragged multitude.
Thus does the battlemented pile of high-built crags, all weather-scarred,
Where grass land stretches mile on mile, keep scornful solitary guard;
Where the sweet spell is not yet broke, while from her wind-swept, sun-kissed dream
Man's cruel touch has not yet woke this Land where silence reigns supreme:
Not the grim silence of a cave, some vaulted stalactited room,
Where feeble candle-shadows wave fantastically through the gloom—
But restful silence, calm repose: the spirit of these sky-bound plains
Tempers the restless blood that flows too fiery through the swelling veins;
Breathes a faint message in the ear, bringing the weary traveller peace;
Whispers, 'Take heart and never fear, for soon the pilgrimage will cease!
Beat not thy wings against the cage! Seek not to burst the padlocked door
That leads to depths thou canst not gauge! Life is all thine: why seek for more?
Read in the slow sun's drooping disc an answer to the thoughts that vex:
Ponder it well, and never risk the substance for its dim reflex.'
Such is the silent sermon told to those who care to read this page
Where once a mighty ocean rolled in some dim, long-forgotten age.
Here, where the Mitchell grass waves green, the never-weary ebb and flow
Of glassy surges once was seen a thousand thousand years ago:
To such a sum those dead years mount that Time has grown too weary for
The keeping of an endless count, and long ago forgot their score.
But now—when, hustled by the wind, fast-flying, fleecy cloud-banks drift
Across the sky where, silver-skinned, the pale moon shines whene'er they lift,
And throws broad patches in strange shapes of light and shade, that seem to meet
In dusky coastline where sharp capes jut far into a winding-sheet
Of ghostly, glimmering, silver rays that struggle 'neath an inky ledge
Of driving cloud, and fill deep bays rent in the shadow's ragged edge—
Sprung from the gloomy depths of Time, faint shapes patrol the spectral sea,
Primeval phantom-forms that climb the lifeless billows silently,
Trailing along their slimy length in thirst for one another's blood,
Writhing in ponderous trials of strength, as once they did before the flood.
They sink, as, driven from the North by straining oar and favouring gale,
A misty barge repels the froth which hides her with a sparkling veil:
High-curled the sharpened beak doth stand, slicing the waters in the lead;
The low hull follows, thickly manned by dim, dead men of Asian breed:
Swift is her passage, short the view the wan moon's restless rays reveal
Of dusky, fierce-eyed warrior crew, of fluttering cloth and flashing steel;
Of forms that mouldered ages past, ere from recesses of the sea,
With earthquake throes this land was cast in Nature's writhing agony.
As the warm airs of Spring-time chase reluctant snows from off the range,
And plant fresh verdure in their place, so the dimvisioned shadows change;
And glimpses of what yet shall be bid the past fly beyond all ken,
While rising from futurity appear vast colonies of men
Who from the sea-coast hills have brought far-quarried spoils to build proud homes
Of high-piled palaces, all wrought in sloping roofs and arching domes,
Smooth-pillared hall, or cool arcade, and slenderest sky-piercing spire,
Where the late-sinking moon has laid her tender tints of mellow fire,
And golden paves the spacious ways where, o'er the smoothen granite flags,
The lightning-driven car conveys its freight with force that never lags.
A goodly city! where no stain of engine-smoke or factory grime
Blemishes walls that will retain their pristine pureness for all time:
Lying as one might take a gem and set it in some strange device
Of precious metal, and might hem it round with stones of lesser price—
So from encircling fields doth spring this city where, in emerald sheen,
Man hath taught Nature how to bring a mantle of perennial green—
Hewing canals whose banks are fringed by willows bending deeply down
To waters flowing yellow-tinged beneath the moon toward the town—
Filling from mighty reservoirs, sunk in the hollows of the plain,
That flood the fields without a pause though Summer should withhold her rain.
Labour is but an empty name to those who dwell within this land,
For they have boldly learnt to tame the lightning's flash with iron hand:
That Force, the dartings from whose eyes not even gods might brave and live,
The blasting essence of the skies, proud Jupiter's prerogative—
His flashing pinions closely clipt, pent in a cunning-fashioned cage,
Of all his flaming glory stript—these men direct his tempered rage:
A bondman, at their idlest breath with silent energy he speeds,
From dawn of life to hour of death, to execute their slightest needs.
Slow to her couch the moon doth creep, but, going, melts in sparkling tears
Of dew, because we may not keep this vision of the future years:
Swiftly, before the sunrise gleam, I watch it melting in the morn—
The snowy city of my dream, the home of nations yet unborn!
JIM'S WHIP
Yes! there it hangs upon the wall
And never gives a sound:
The hand that trimmed its greenhide fall
Is hidden underground—
There, in that patch of sallee shade,
Beneath that grassy mound.
I never take it from the wall:
That whip belonged to him—
The man I singled from them all:
He was my husband, Jim.
I see him now—so straight and tall,
So long and lithe of limb.
That whip was with him night and day
When he was on the track:
I've often heard him laugh and say
That when they heard it crack,
After the breaking of the drought,
The cattle all came back.
And all the time that Jim was here,
A-working on the run,
I'd hear that whip ring sharp and clear
Just about set of sun,
To let me know that he was near
And that his work was done.
I was away that afternoon,
Penning the calves, when—bang!
I heard his whip: 'twas rather soon:
A thousand echoes rang
And died away among the hills,
As toward the hut I sprang.
I made the tea and waited, but,
Seized by a sudden whim,
I went and sat outside the hut
And watched the light grow dim:
I waited there till after dark,
But not a sign of Jim.
The evening air was damp with dew:
Just as the clock struck ten
His horse came riderless—I knew
What was the matter then...
Why should the Lord have singled out
My Jim from other men?
I took the horse and found him where
He lay beneath the sky,
With blood all clotted in his hair.
I felt too dazed to cry:
I held him to me as I prayed
To God that I might die.
But sometimes now I seem to hear—
Just when the air grows chill—
A single whip-crack, sharp and clear,
Re-echo from the hill.
That's Jim! to let me know he's near
And thinking of me still.
THE DEMON SNOW-SHOES
The snow lies deep on hill and dale,
In rocky gulch and grassy vale:
The tiny, trickling, tumbling falls
Are frozen 'twixt their rocky walls
That grey and brown look silent down
Upon Kiandra's shrouded town.
The Eucumbene itself lies dead,
Fast frozen in its narrow bed;
And distant sounds ring out quite near,
The crystal air is froze so clear;
While to and fro the people go
In silent swiftness o'er the snow.
And, like a mighty gallows-frame,
The derrick in the New Chum claim
Hangs over where, despite the cold,
Strong miners seek the hidden gold,
And stiff and blue, half-frozen through,
The fickle dame of Fortune woo.
Far out, along a snow-capped range,
There rose a sound which echoed strange:
Where snow-emburthen'd branches hang,
And flashing icicles, there rang
A gay refrain, as towards the plain
Sped swiftly downward Carl the Dane.
His long, lithe snow-shoes sped along
In easy rhythm to his song;
Now slowly circling round the hill,
Now speeding downward with a will;
The crystals crash and blaze and flash
As o'er the frozen crust they dash.
Among the hills the first he shone
Of all who buckled snow-shoe on;
For though the mountain lads were fleet,
But one bold rival dare compete,
To veer and steer, devoid of fear,
Beside this strong-limbed mountaineer.
'Twas Davy Eccleston who dared
To cast the challenge: If Carl cared
On shoes to try their mutual pace,
Then let him enter for the race,
Which might be run by anyone—
A would-be champion. Carl said 'Done!'
But not alone in point of speed
They sought to gain an equal meed;
For in the narrow lists of love
Dave Eccleston had cast the glove:
Though both had prayed, the blushing maid
As yet no preference betrayed,
But played them off, as women will,
One 'gainst the other one, until—
A day when she was sorely pressed—
To loving neither youth confessed;
But did exclaim—the wily dame!—
'Who wins this race, I'll bear his name!'
Her words were ringing through Carl's head
As o'er the frozen crust he sped,
But suddenly became aware
That not alone he travelled there:
He sudden spied, with swinging stride,
A stranger gliding by his side:
The breezes o'er each shoulder tossed
His beard, bediamonded with frost;
His eyes flashed strangely, bushy-browed;
His breath hung round him like a shroud;
He never spoke, nor silence broke,
But by the Dane sped stroke for stroke.
'Old man! I do not know your name,
Nor what you are, nor whence you came—
But this: if I but had your shoes
This champion race I ne'er could lose.
To call them mine, those shoes divine,
I'll gladly pay should you incline.'
The stranger merely bowed his head—
'The shoes are yours,' he gruffly said.
'I change with you, though at a loss;
And in return I ask that cross
Which, while she sung, your mother hung
Around your neck when you were young.'
Carl hesitated when he heard
The price, but not for long demurred,
And gave the cross. With trembling haste
The shoes upon his feet were laced—
So long, yet light and polished bright—
His heart beat gladly at the sight.
Now, on the morning of the race,
Expectancy on every face,
They come the programme to fulfil
Upon the slope of Township Hill.
With silent feet the people meet,
While youths and maidens laughing greet.
High-piled the flashing snowdrifts lie,
And laugh to scorn the sun's dull eye,
That, glistening feebly, seems to say:
'When Summer comes you'll melt away!
You'll change your song when I grow strong:
I think so, though I may be wrong.'
The pistol flashed, and off they went
Like lightning on the steep descent.
Resistlessly down-swooping, swift
O'er the smooth face of polished drift
The racers strain with might and main;
But in the lead flies Carl the Dane.
Behind him Davy did his best,
With hopeless eye and lip compressed:
Beat by a snow-shoe length at most,
They flash and pass the winning-post.
The maiden said, 'I'll gladly wed
The youth who in this race has led.'
But where was he? Still speeding fast,
Over the frozen stream he passed.
They watched his flying form until
They lost it over Sawyers' Hill;
Nor saw it more: the people swore
The like they'd never seen before.
The way he scaled that steep ascent
Was quite against all precedent;
While others said he could but choose
To do it on those demon shoes.
They talked in vain, for Carl the Dane
Was never seen in flesh again.
But now the lonely diggers say
That sometimes at the close of day,
They see a misty wraith flash by,
With the faint echo of a cry.
It may be true; perhaps they do:
I doubt it much; but what say you?