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Come then； loose hands！ Our lover time is done。
Now is the marriage with the eternal sun。
The hours are few that rest； are few and fleet。
Good…bye！ The game is lost： the game is won。
Thomas William Heney。
Absence
Ah； happy air that； rough or soft；
May kiss that face and stay；
And happy beams that from above
May choose to her their way；
And happy flowers that now and then
Touch lips more sweet than they！
But it were not so blest to be
Or light or air or rose；
Those dainty fingers tear and toss
The bloom that in them glows；
And come or go； both wind and ray
She heeds not； if she knows。
But if I come thy choice should be
Either to love or not
For if I might I would not kiss
And then be all forgot；
And it were best thy love to lose
If love self…scorn begot。
A Riverina Road
Now while so many turn with love and longing
To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea；
To thee we turn； hearts； mem'ries； all belonging；
Dear land of ours； to thee。
West； ever west； with the strong sunshine marching
Beyond the mountains； far from this soft coast；
Until we almost see the great plains arching；
In endless mirage lost。
A land of camps where seldom is sojourning；
Where men like the dim fathers of our race；
Halt for a time； and next day； unreturning；
Fare ever on apace。
Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted
The wailing birds of passage in their file；
And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited
Where men had dwelt awhile。
The sun may burn； the mirage shift and vanish
And fade and glare by turns along the sky；
The haze of heat may all the distance banish
To the uncaring eye。
By speech； or tongue of bird or brute； unbroken
Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain；
Nor any sign； far off or near； betoken
Man in this vast domain。
Though tender grace the landscape lacks； too spacious；
Impassive； silent； lonely； to be fair；
Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious；
Who live or tarry there。
All that he has； in camp or homestead； proffers
To stranger guest at once a stranger host；
Proudest to see accepted what he offers；
Given without a boast。
Pass； if you can； the drover's cattle stringing
Along the miles of the wide travelled road；
Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing；
Kind though abrupt the mode。
A cloud of dust where polish'd wheels are flashing
Passes along； and in it rolls the mail。
Comes from the box as on the coach goes dashing
The lonely driver's hail。
Or in the track a station youngster mounted
Sits in his saddle smoking for a 〃spell〃；
Rides a while onward； then； his news recounted；
Parts with a brief farewell。
To…day these plains may seem a face defiant；
Turn'd to a mortal foe； yet scorning fear；
As when； with heaven at war； an Earth…born giant
Saw the Olympian near。
Come yet again！ No child's fair face is sweeter
With young delight than this cool blooming land；
Silent no more； for songs than wings are fleeter；
No blaze； but sunshine bland。
Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding
Makes man as moody； sad and savage too；
Yet in his heart； like her； a passion holding；
Unselfish； kind and true。
Therefore； while many turn with love and longing
To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea；
To…day possessed by other mem'ries thronging
We turn； wild West； to thee！
23rd December； 1891。
Patrick Edward Quinn。
A Girl's Grave
〃Aged 17； OF A BROKEN HEART； January 1st； 1841。〃
What story is here of broken love；
What idyllic sad romance；
What arrow fretted the silken dove
That met with such grim mischance？
I picture you； sleeper of long ago；
When you trifled and danced and smiled；
All golden laughter and beauty's glow
In a girl life sweet and wild。
Hair with the red gold's luring tinge；
Fine as the finest silk；
Violet eyes with a golden fringe
And cheeks of roses and milk。
Something of this you must have been；
Something gentle and sweet；
To have broken your heart at seventeen
And died in such sad defeat。
Hardly one of your kinsfolk live；
It was all so long ago；
The tale of the cruel love to give
That laid you here so low。
Loving； trusting； and foully paid
The story is easily guessed；
A blotted sun and skies that fade
And this grass…grown grave the rest。
Whatever the cynic may sourly say；
With a dash of truth； I ween；
Of the girls of the period； in your day
They had hearts at seventeen。
Dead of a fashion out of date；
Such folly has passed away
Like the hoop and patch and modish gait
That went out with an older day。
The stone is battered and all awry；
The words can be scarcely read；
The rank reeds clustering thick and high
Over your buried head。
I pluck one straight as a Paynim's lance
To keep your memory green；
For the lordly sake of old Romance
And your own； sad seventeen。
John Sandes。
‘With Death's Prophetic Ear'
Lay my rifle here beside me； set my Bible on my breast；
For a moment let the warning bugles cease；
As the century is closing I am going to my rest；
Lord； lettest Thou Thy servant go in peace。
But loud through all the bugles rings a cadence in mine ear；
And on the winds my hopes of peace are strowed。
Those winds that waft the voices that already I can hear
Of the rooi…baatjes singing on the road。
Yes； the red…coats are returning； I can hear the steady tramp；
After twenty years of waiting； lulled to sleep；
Since rank and file at Potchefstroom we hemmed them in their camp；
And cut them up at Bronkerspruit like sheep。
They shelled us at Ingogo； but we galloped into range；
And we shot the British gunners where they showed。
I guessed they would return to us； I knew the chance must change
Hark！ the rooi…baatjes singing on the road！
But now from snow…swept Canada； from India's torrid plains；
From lone Australian outposts； hither led；
Obeying their commando； as they heard the bugle's strains；
The men in brown have joined the men in red。
They come to find the colours at Majuba left and lost；
They come to pay us back the debt they owed；
And I hear new voices lifted； and I see strange colours tossed；
'Mid the rooi…baatjes singing on the road。
The old； old faiths must falter； and the old； old creeds must fail
I hear it in that distant murmur low
The old； old order changes； and 'tis vain for us to rail；
The great world does not want us we must go。
And veldt； and spruit； and kopje to the stranger will belong；
No more to trek before him we shall load；
Too well； too well； I know it； for I hear it in the song
Of the rooi…baatjes singing on the road。
Inez K。 Hyland。
To a Wave
Where were you yesterday？ In Gulistan；
With roses and the frenzied nightingales？
Rather would I believe you shining ran
With peaceful floods； where the soft voice prevails
Of building doves in lordly trees set high；
Trees which enclose a home where love abides
His love and hers； a passioned ecstasy；
Your tone has caught its echo and derides
My joyless lot； as face down pressed I lie
Upon the shifting sand； and hear the reeds
Voicing a thin； dissonant threnody
Unto the cliff and wind…tormented weeds。
As with the faint half…lights of jade toward
The shore you come and show a violet hue；
I wonder if the face of my adored
Was ever held importraitured by you。
Ah； no！ if you had seen his face； still prest
Within your hold the picture dear would be；
Like that bright portrait which so moved the breast
Of fairest Gurd with soft unrest that she；
Born in ice halls； she who but raised her eyes
And scornful questioned； 〃What is love； indeed？
None ever viewed it 'neath these northern skies；〃
Seeing the face soon learned love's gentle creed；
But you hold nothing to be counted dear
Only a gift of weed and broken shells；
Yet I will gather one； so I can hear
The soft remembrance which still in it dwells：
For in the shell； though broken； ever lies
The murmur of the sea whence it was torn
So in a woman's heart there never dies
The memory of love； though love be lorn。
Bread and Wine
A cup of opal
Through which there glows
The cream of the pearl；
The heart of the rose；
And the blue of the sea
Where Australia lies；
And the amber flush
Of her sunset skies；
And the emerald tints
Of the dragon fly
Shall stain my cup
With their brilliant dye。
And into this cup
I would pour the wine
Of youth and health
And the gifts divine
Of music and song；
And the sweet content
Which must ever belong
To a life well spent。
And what bread w