In Time Of Drought

The rushes are black by the river bed,
And the sheep and the cattle stand
Wistful-eyed, where the waters were,
In a waste of gravel and sand;
Or pass o'er their dying and dead to slake
Their thirst at the slimy pool.
Shall they pine and perish in pangs of drought
While Thy river, O God, is full.

The fields are furrowed, the seed is sown,
But no dews from the heavens are shed;
And where shall the grain for the harvest be?
And how shall the poor be fed?
In waterless gullies they winnow the earth,
New-turned by the miner's tool;
And the way-farer faints 'neath his lightened load,1
Yet the river of God is full.

For us, O Father, from tropic seas,
Let the clouds be filled that shed
Rough rains upon Andes' eastward slope,
Soft snows on Himàleh's head.
Freight for us as for others thy dark-winged fleet,
That soon by the waters cool,
We may say with gladness, “Our need was great,
But the river of God was full!”

The Belated Swallow

And the birds of the air have nests.”

Belated swallow, whither flying?
The day is dead, the light is dying,
The night draws near:
Where is thy nest, slow put together,
Soft-lined with moss and downy feather,
For shelter-place in stress of weather
And darkness drear?

Past, past, above the lighted city,
Unknowing of my wondering pity,
Seaward she flies.
Alas, poor bird! what rude awaking
Has driven thee forth, when storms are breaking,
And frightened gulls the waves forsaking
With warning cries?

Alas, my soul! while leaves are greenest
Thy heedless head thou fondly screenest
Beneath thy wing.
How bravely thou thy plumage wearest,
How lightly thou life's burthen bearest,
How happily thy home preparest,
In careless spring!

Yet Destiny the hour may bring thee
When none of all that sing can sing thee
To joy or rest!
When all the winds that blow shall blow thee;
And, ere the floods shall overflow thee,
The sunlight linger but to show thee
Thy shattered nest

In The South Pacific

A vision of a savage land,
A glimpse of cloud-ringed seas;
A moonlit deck, a murderous hand;
No more, no more of these!

No more! how heals the tender flesh,
Once torn by savage beast?
The wound, re-opening, bleeds afresh,
Each season at the least!

O day, for dawn of thee how prayed
The spirit, sore distressed;
Thy latest beams, upslanting, made
A pathway for the blest.

And robes, new-donned, of the redeemed,
Gleamed white past grief's dark pall:
So this, a day of death which seemed,
A birthday let us call.

Remembering, such day as this,
A soul from flesh was shriven,
By death, God's messenger of bliss;
A spirit entered Heaven.

Thy dying head no loving breast
Upheld, O early slain;
But soon, mid welcoming saints, 'twas prest
Where God's own Child has lain!

Though none at death broke Bread for thee,
Or poured the Sacred Wine;
Thou, nourished at His Board, dost see
The Substance of the Sign.

We mourned thee! Heaven's new born, and rich
Past all our prayers could claim,
Secure in blessedness, of which
We have not learnt the name.

David's Lament For Jonathan

Thou wast hard pressed, yet God concealed this thing
From me; and thou wast wounded very sore,
And beaten down, O son of Israel's king,
Like wheat on threshing-flour.

Thou, that from courtly and from wise for friend
Didst choose me, and in spite of ban and sneer,
Rebuke and ridicule, until the end
Didst ever hold me dear!

All night thy body on the mountain lay:
At morn the heathen nailed thee to their wall.
Surely their deaf gods hear the songs to-day
O'er the slain House of Saul!

Oh! if that witch were here thy father sought,
Methinks I e'en could call thee from thy place,
To shift thy mangled image from my thought,
Seeing thy soul's calm face.

I sorrowed for the words the prophet spoke,
That set me rival to thy father's line;
But o'er thy spirit no repining broke
For what had else been thine.

Thou wast not like to me, so rude, so hot;
The world was not in thine, as in my sight,
Like the proud giant who from Israel sought
A champion to fight.

I thought to ask, nor looked to be denied,
Of God, that in my days there might ascend
His House; not from my hands, so redly dyed,
But thine, pure-hearted friend.

My friend, within God's House thou dwellest now;
Thy wounds are healed, thou need'st no Gilead-balm;
Defeated and degraded, yet thy brow
Is crowned, with death and calm.

O God, this is Thy black and bitter sea
Which buffets so and blinds my struggling soul:
Out of the depths I cry, O God, to Thee,
Whose grief-waves o'er me roll.

God give to me the spirit that was his,
The patience, that he needs no more to blend
With the wild eagerness that mars my bliss;
I would be like my friend.

Through the dark valley soon, to where he stands,
God summon me! Till then the sword shall shine
That comes from his dead grasp into my hands:
His children be as mine!

'Tis a new thing for Australia that the waters to her bear
One who seeks not strength of sunshine, or the breath of healing air;
One who reeks not of her riches, nor remembers she is fair;
One who land and houses, henceforth, holdeth not, for evermore;
Coming for such narrow dwelling as the dead need, to the shore
Named aforetime by the spirit to receive the garb it wore.

'Tis a strange thing for Australia that her name should be the name
Breathed ere death by one who loved her, claiming, with a patriot's claim,
Earth of her as chosen grave-place; rather than the lands of fame;
Rather than the Sacred City where a sepulchre was sought
For the noblest hearts of Europe; rather than the Country fraught
With the incense of the altars whence our household gods were brought.

'Tis a proud thing for Australia, while the funeral-prayers are said,
To remember loving service, frankly rendered by the dead;
How he strove, amid the nations, evermore to raise her head.
How in youth he sang her glory, as it is, and is to be,
Called her “Empress,” while they held her yet as base-born, over sea,
Owned her “Mother,” when her children scarce were counted with the free!

How he claimed of King and Commons that his birthland should be used
As a daughter not an alien; till the boon, so oft refused,
Was withheld, at last, no longer; and the former bonds were loosed.
How the scars of serfdom faded. How he led within the light
Of her fireside Earth's Immortals; chrism-touched from Olympus' height;
Whom gods loved; for whom the New Faith, too, has guest-rooms garnished bright.

'Tis a great thing for Australia; that her child of early years,
Shared her path of desert-travel, bread of sorrow, drink of tears,
Holding by her to these hill-tops, whence her Promised Place appears.
Titles were not hers to offer as the meed of service done;
Rank of peer or badge of knighthood, star or ribbon, she had none;
But she breathes a mother's blessing o'er the ashes of her son.