THE FIDDLE AND THE CROWD WHEN the day

THE FIDDLE AND THE CROWD
WHEN the day was at its middle, Tired of limb and slow of pace, Came a fiddler with his fiddle
To a crowded market place; Lying, cheating, boasting, bragging,
Men and women walked together; Heads were nodding, tongues were wagging,
Talk there was of trade and weather, Talk there was of man’s enslavement
To the tyrants, Toil and Worry; Yet the fiddle on the pavement
Minding not the noise and hurry, Singing low and singing loud Spoke its message to the crowd.
Said the fiddle *
“Pause and listen ;
Can’t you hear the waters running Down the mossy mountain valleys? Don’t you see the lyre-bird sunning Glossy plumes in fronded alleys? Life is glory, life is glamour!” Said the fiddle In the middle
Of the tumult and the clamour.

TO HOME RETURNED. THOU art to us returned

TO HOME RETURNED.
THOU art to us returned again.
To me it seems As if in all thy absence I
Had walked in dreams ; For day was shorn of golden light,
And all the hours, Slowly and sad, went wandering by.
No crowning flowers The hand of Spring upon them cast.
Cowled were they As mourners, who unto a grave
Bore Time away.

THE GREATER LOVE On the beaches then, Sporting

THE GREATER LOVE
On the beaches then, Sporting with the sea,
Gathered brown-limbed men Graced like statuary
Chiselled by some bold
Master hand of old.
All were guests of Joy;
All his sportive clan Here a shouting boy,
There a jesting man, While the breakers hymned, Braving them, stout-limbed.
Listen, Golden-Head!
Came a Wondrous One Unto each, and said:
“Look on me, my son! Am I not above All things else you love?”
Then that love began Which is more than life
More than love of man, Love of maid or wife;
Love of queen or king,
Aught or anything.

THE LOVERS’ WALK BY the slowly flowing river

THE LOVERS’ WALK
BY the slowly flowing river Lies the old, shadowed walk, Where the lovers, two and two, Ere the falling of the dew, Of the sweetest thing on earth in the soft shadows talk.
For, though honey has a sweetness,
As the tasting palate knows,
Yet young love is sweeter, sure, Than the honey, pale and pure,
That the brown bee gets from the heart of the rose.
Though there’s music in the waters And the singing of the birds,
Yet a richer music dwells
In the tale each couple tells In that scene of green enchantment, as they put their hearts in words.
Though they have not throne or sceptre, They are kings and queens, in truth;
And their realm is all their own,
And they rule in it alone, For the wonder and the splendour of the world belong to youth.

MY SOUL IS DAKK. MY soul is dark

MY SOUL IS DAKK.
MY soul is dark : I cannot see The path nay feet should tread,
But hopeless walk the open road, The broader way instead,
Although I knew the sunless land To which it ever led.
Around me rise the mists of earth.
I grope as in a cloud. No answer comes unto my heart,
Whene’er I cry aloud, And every shape about me wears
The likeness of a shroud.

KEFLECTION. Whilst life, with laughing eye and healthful

KEFLECTION.

Whilst life, with laughing eye and healthful glow, Is breathing warm upon thy sunny brow ; Whilst all is joyous as the morning hour, And hope the rainbow sees, but not the shower ; Whilst merry childhood fills thine heart with glee, And care affrighted, flies from infancy; Whilst the full cups, by rosy pleasure crown’d, From guest to guest pass joyously around Bethink thee of the pensive evening hour, The lamp that burns beside the pall of power; The silent graves on which the moonlight falls, And where they feasted once, the silent halls And learn how soon thy Mends shall close thine eye, And add thee to that quiet company.

DROVERS TWAIN Knees gripping hard, he dashes on,

DROVERS TWAIN
Knees gripping hard, he dashes on,
The swift wind in his hair;
Whate’er befall, whate’er betide,
All thought of peril thrust aside,
He feels the glory and the pride
Of those who finely dare.
The moving mob was mountain-reared
And mountain-bred and born, Their hides of brand and marking clear As shy as deer, as swift as deer Who over heath and highland hear The huntsman’s early horn.
And yet with dog and spur and whip,
Our horses flaked with foam, The magpies singing all the while, Through hour and hour and mile and mile, For all their speed of hoof and guile, We brought the cattle home.
A score of years has passed away,
Slow filing on, since then ; And Time, who knows no sparing ruth, And Wisdom, armed with bitter truth, Have tamed the heart of reckless youth
And greyed the beards of men.

BEQUEATHAL THE night-birds cry in the bush outside,

BEQUEATHAL
THE night-birds cry in the bush outside, And I write here, though the hour be late ; And what shall I write of the man who died? “He gave his gold to the poor at his gate !”
The line is written. Was that his all, And did that all exhaust his love? “Nay, nay, write on, while the night-birds call : ‘He gave his soul to his God above’ !”
Say on; for in so rich a vein
More gold lay waiting to be proved. ‘ ‘Twas so ! Write this, and write it plain : ‘He gave his heart to the wife he loved’ !”
What more ? “What more dost thou require ?
What more was left to give or take? Yet more there was. Write this in fire :
‘He gave his life for his country’s sake’ !”
“Last gift of all, with courage fine,
Though far from stars that watched his birth. He fell. Write then this final line :
‘He gave his clay to the aliens’ earth’ !”

TO A PORTRAIT. And haply now in moonlit

TO A PORTRAIT.
And haply now in moonlit bower
That delicate form is bending, And love and light, a rainbow shower,
Are on that brow descending ; And deeply to the Eternal Three Thy prayer is made, is made for me :
For thine the charm that only they
Who often kneel partake Kneel e’er the purple waves of day
In silent glory break Kneel when the moon, in silver shrouds Her pathway through the blushing clouds.
Yet, oh! shall death that brow defile?
And shall the greedy worm Drink up the nectar of that smile,
Feed on that angel form? Shall dust beneath and dust above Dry all that flowing fount of love ?
Shall the soft lustre of that eye
In starless night be quench’ d, That eloquent pulse beat languidly,
That rosy cheek be blench’ d ; And looks of love and thoughts of home, Pass all away like river foam ?

WITH THE QUANDONGS And there we were on

WITH THE QUANDONGS
And there we were on the plains alone In the hush of a drowsy air
Rita and Meg with roguish eyes And Trixie with wayward hair.
A far mirage of mingled sun and dream Was born of the noontide sleep,
And the rifled fruit of the quandongs lay At our feet in a ruddy heap.
I know that the quandong’s burning fruit Still reddens the drowsy air ;
That Trixie is grown and sometime wed, And Rita is grave and fair.
I know that Meg of the roguish eyes, Though ten long years be sped,
Still plucks the fruit of the quandong trees When the quandong fruit is -red.
I know and I know to my loss, alas! That I stand where the winds blow cold,
And search, with others, another tree For its scanty fruit of gold.