AT DEVLIN'S SIDING
What made the porter stare so hard? what made the porter stare
And eye the tall young woman and the bundle that she bare?
What made the tall young woman flush, and strive to hide her face,
As the train slid past the platform and the guard swung in his place?
What made her look so stealthily both up and down the line,
And quickly give the infant suck to still its puny whine?
Why was the sawmill not at work? why were the men away?
They might have turned a woman from a woeful deed that day.
Why did the pine-scrub stand so thick? why was the place so lone
That nothing but the soldier-birds might hear a baby moan?
Why doth the woman tear the child? why doth the mother take
The infant from her breast, and weep as if her heart would break?
Why doth she moan, and grind her teeth, and weave an awful curse
To fall on him who made of her a harlot—ay, and worse?
Why should she fall upon her knees and, with a trembling hand,
Clear off the underbrush and scrape a cradle in the sand?
Why doth she shudder as she hears the buzz of eager flies,
And bind a handkerchief across the sleeping infant's eyes?
Why doth she turn, but come again and feverishly twine,
To shield it from the burning sun, the fragrant fronds of pine?
Why, as she strides the platform, does she try hard not to think
That somewhere in the scrub a babe is calling her for drink?
Why, through the alleys of the pine, do languid breezes sigh
A low refrain that seems to mock her with a baby's cry?
Seek not to know! but pray for her, and pity, as the train
Carries a white-faced woman back to face the world again.
FEATHERSTONHAUGH
Brookong station lay half-asleep—
Dozed in the waning western glare.
'Twas before the run had been stocked with sheep,
And only cattle depastured there,
As the Bluecap mob reined up at the door
And loudly saluted Featherstonhaugh.
'My saintly preacher!' the leader cried:
I stand no nonsense, as you're aware.
I've a word for you if you'll step outside:
Just drop that pistol and have a care:
I'll trouble you, too, for the key of the store:
For we're short of tucker, friend Featherstonhaugh.'
The muscular Christian showed no fear,
Though he handed the key with but small delay:
He never answered the ruffian's jeer
Except by a look which seemed to say:
'Beware, my friend! and think twice before
You raise the devil in Featherstonhaugh.'
Two hours after he reined his horse
Up in Urana, and straightway went
'To the barracks—the trooper was gone, of course!
Blindly nosing a week-old scent
A way in the scrub around Mount Galore.
'Confound the fellow!' quoth Featherstonhaugh.
'Will any man of you come with me
And give this Bluecap a dressing-down?'
They all regarded him silently
As he turned his horse with a scornful frown.
'You're curs, the lot of you, to the core!
I'll go by myself!' said Featherstonhaugh.
The scrub was thick on Urangeline,
As he followed the tracks that twisted through
The box and dogwood and scented pine
(One of their horses had cast a shoe)
Steeped from his youth in forest lore,
He could track like a nigger, could Featherstonhaugh.
He paused as he saw the thread of smoke
From the outlaw camp, and he marked the sound
Of a hobble-check, as it sharply broke
The silence that held the scrub-land bound.
There were their horses—two, three, four!
'It's a risk; but I'll chance it!' quoth Featherstonhaugh.
He loosed the first and it walked away;
But his comrade's silence could not be bought,
For he raised his head with a sudden neigh,
And plainly showed that he'd not be caught.
As a bullet sang from a rifle-bore,
'It's time to be moving!' quoth Featherstonhaugh.
The brittle pine, as they broke away,
Crackled like ice in a winter's ponds;
The strokes fell fast on the cones that lay
Buried beneath the withered fronds
That softly carpet the sandy floor:
Swept two on the tracks of Featherstonhaugh.
They struck the path that the stock had made—
A dustily-red, well-beaten track.
The leader opened a fusilade
Whose target was Featherston's stooping back;
But his luck was out; not a bullet tore
As much as a shred from Featherstonhaugh.
Rattle 'em! rattle 'em fast on the pad
Where the sloping shades fell dusk and dim!
The manager's heart beat high and glad,
For he knew the creek was a mighty swim.
Already he heard a smothered roar:
'They're done like a dinner!' quoth Featherstonhaugh.
It was almost dark as they neared the dam:
He struck the crossing as true as a hair:
For the space of a second the pony swam;
Then shook himself in the chill night air.
In a pine-tree shade on the further shore,
With his pistol cocked, stood Featherstonhaugh.
A splash! an oath! and a rearing horse!
A thread snapped short in the fateful loom!
The tide, unaltered, swept on its course
Though a fellow-creature had met his doom.
Pale and trembling, and struck with awe,
Bluecap stood opposite Featherstonhaugh.
While the creek rolled muddily in between,
The eddies played with the drowned man's hat.
The stars peeped out in their summer sheen:
A night-bird chirruped across the flat.
Quoth Bluecap, 'I owe you a heavy score,
And I'll live to repay it, Featherstonhaugh!'
But he never did; for he ran his race
Before he had time to fulfil his oath:
I can't think how; but in any case,
He was hung, or drowned—or it may be both;
But whichever it was, he came no more
To trouble the peace of Featherstonhaugh.
DESIREE
Will she spring with a blush from the arms of Dawn,
When the sleepy songsters prune
Their dewy vestments on bush and thorn,
And the jovial magpie winds his horn
In sweet réveil to the lazy morn
And the sun comes all too soon?
Will she come with him from the farthest rim
Of the blue Pacific sea?
But how shall I know my lady? and by
What token will she know me?
Will she come to me in the noonday hush,
When the flowers are fast asleep
'Neath their counterpane of emerald plush
In the fragrant warmth of the under-brush,
Where Spring still lingers on moist and lush—
While naught but the shadows creep,
And all is rest but the eager quest
And the buzz of the tireless bee?
But how shall I know my lady then?
And how will my love know me?
Or will she come when the gallant Day
At the hands of the Night lies dead?
When stealthy creatures have right of way
Among the branches to romp and play,
And the great green forest turns ashen gray
At the sound of the dead men's tread?
Will my lady slip with smile on lip
From the heart of a white box tree?
But how shall I know 'tis she who comes?
And how will she know 'tis me?
Will her hair be tinged as when sunbeams gird
A castle of carmine rock?
Or brown as a leaf in the sun's kiss curled?
Or dark as the wing of that sable bird
Whose hated voice is so often heard
In the wake of the bleating flock?
Or will it be rolled in a crown of gold,
An emblem of royalty?
But how will I know 'tis she who comes?
And how will she know 'tis me?
Is her ear as shapely as Venus' shell,
And pierced by a diamond gleam?
Is her hand as white as the immortelle?
Her voice as sweet as that sounding bell
The gray bird tolls to the listening dell
Where the ti-tree hides the stream?
Have the words been said? is my lady wed?
Is my lady bond or free?—
No matter who claims her earthly form,
For her heart belongs to me!
Will her eyes be clear as the amber flight
Of the stream over sandstone bar?
Or darkly blue as the vault of night?
Will her flesh show pink through its veil of white,
And its violet-pencilled curves be bright
As the polished breast of a star?
And where, oh, where may you find a pair
Who shall love so well as we?
But how shall I know my lady? by
What token will she know me?
Will her cloak be shaped from the southern skies
And girt by a starry sash—
Like an azure mist, as my lady hies
With the light of love in her kindling eyes?
Will she move with the solemn grace that lies
In the towering mountain ash!...
Will she come at all? may it not befall
That our fates are dark and dree?
That I may never know her at all,
And she may never know me?
WHERE THE DEAD MEN LIE
Out on the wastes of the Never Never—
That's where the dead men lie!
There where the heat-waves dance for ever—
That's where the dead men lie!
That's where the Earth's loved sons are keeping
Endless tryst: not the west wind sweeping
Feverish pinions can wake their sleeping—
Out where the dead men lie!
Where brown Summer and Death have mated—
That's where the dead men lie!
Loving with fiery lust unsated—
That's where the dead men lie!
Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely
Under the saltbush sparkling brightly;
Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly—
That's where the dead men lie!
Deep in the yellow, flowing river—
That's where the dead men lie!
Under the banks where the shadows quiver—
That's where the dead men lie!
Where the platypus twists and doubles,
Leaving a train of tiny bubbles;
Rid at last of their earthly troubles—
That's where the dead men lie!
East and backward pale faces turning—
That's how the dead men lie!
Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning—
That's how the dead men lie!
Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning
Hearing again their mothers' crooning,
Wrapt for aye in a dreamful swooning—
That's how the dead men lie!
Only the hand of Night can free them—
That's when the dead men fly!
Only the frightened cattle see them—
See the dead men go by!
Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,
Bidding the stockman know no leisure—
That's when the dead men take their pleasure!
That's when the dead men fly!
Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover:
He sees the dead pass by;
Hearing them call to their friends—the plover,
Hearing the dead men cry;
Seeing their faces stealing, stealing,
Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing,
Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling
Round where the cattle lie!
Strangled by thirst and fierce privation—
That's how the dead men die!
Out on Moneygrub's farthest station—
That's how the dead men die!
Hardfaced greybeards, youngsters callow;
Some mounds cared for, some left fallow;
Some deep down, yet others shallow;
Some having but the sky.
Moneygrub, as he sips his claret,
Looks with complacent eye
Down at his watch-chain, eighteen-carat—
There, in his club, hard by:
Recks not that every link is stamped with
Names of the men whose limbs are cramped with
Too long lying in grave mould, camped with
Death where the dead men lie.