The Poet Care
CARE is a Poet fine:
He works in shade or shine,
And leaves—you know his sign!—
No day without its line.
He writes with iron pen
Upon the brows of men;
Faint lines at first, and then
He scores them in again.
His touch at first is light
On Beauty’s brow of white;
The old churl loves to write
On foreheads broad and bright.
A line for young love crossed,
A line for fair hopes lost
In an untimely frost—
A line that means Thou Wast.
Then deeper script appears:
The furrows of dim fears,
The traces of old tears,
The tide-marks of the years.
To him with sight made strong
By suffering and wrong,
The brows of all the throng
Are eloquent with song.
At The Opera
THE CURTAIN rose—the play began—
The limelight on the gay garbs shone;
Yet carelessly I gazed upon
The painted players, maid and man,
As one with idle eyes who sees
The marble figures on a frieze.
Long lark-notes clear the first act close,
So the soprano: then a hush—
The tenor, tender as a thrush;
Then loud and high the chorus rose,
Till, with a sudden rush and strong,
It ended in a storm of song.
The curtain fell—the music died—
The lights grew bright, revealing there
The flash of jewelled fingers fair,
And wreaths of pearls on brows of pride;
Then, with a quick-flushed cheek, I turned,
And into mine her dark eyes burned.
Such eyes but once a man may see,
And, seeing once, his fancy dies
To thought of any other eyes:
So shadow-soft, they seemed to be
Twin haunted lakes, lit by the gleams
Of a mysterious moon of dreams.
Silk lashes veiled their liquid light
With such a shade as tall reeds fling
From the lake-marge at sunsetting:
Their darkness might have hid the night—
Yet whoso saw their glance would say
Night dreamt therein, and saw the day.
Long looked I at them, wondering
What tender memories were hid
Beneath each blue-veined lily-lid;
What hopes of joys the years would bring;
What griefs? In vain: I might not guess
The secret of their silentness.
What of her face? Her face, meseems,
Was such as painters see who muse
By moonlight in dim avenues,
Yet cannot paint; or as in dreams,
Young poets see, but, when they try
To limn in verse are dumb—so I.
Yet well I know that I have seen
That sweet face in the long ago
In a rose-bower—well I know—
Laughing the singing leaves between,
In that strange land of rose and rhyme—
The land of Once upon a Time.
O unknown sweet, so sweetly known,
I know not what your name may be—
Madonna is your name for me—
Nor where your lines in life are thrown;
But soul sees soul—what is the rest?
A passing phantom at the best.
Did your young bosom never glow
To love? or burns your heart beneath
As burns the rosebud in its sheath?
I neither know nor wish to know:
I smell the rose upon the tree;
Who will may pluck and wear, for me—
May wear the rose, and watch it die,
And, leaf by red leaf, fade and fall,
Till there be nothing left at all
Of its sweet loveliness; but I
Love it so well, I leave it free—
The scent alone I take with me!
As one who visits sacred spots
Brings tokens back, so I from you
A glance, a smile, a rapture new!
And these are my forget-me-nots!
I take from you but only these—
Give all the rest to whom you please.
Sweet eyes, your glance a light shall cast
On me, when dreaded ghosts arise
Of dead regrets with shrouded eyes,
And phantoms of the perished past,
Old thoughts, old hopes, and old desire
Gather around my lonely fire!
Farewell! In rhyme, I kiss your hand—
Kiss not unsweet, although unheard!—
This is our secret—say no word—
That I have been in Fairyland,
And seen for one brief moment’s space
The Queen Titania face to face.
A Vision Splendid
Half waking and half dreaming,
While starry lamps hung low
I saw a vision splendid
Upon the darkness glow.
The Capital Australian,
With waving banners plumed -
A shining flower of marble -
Magnificently bloomed.
Beside a snow-fed river
'Twas built in fashion rare -
Upon a lofty mountain,
All in a valley fair.
The stately ships were sailing,
Like brides with flowing trains,
To seek its secret harbor
Amidst Australian plains.
And all around it flourished
Luxuriantly free,
The giant gum and mangrove,
The crimson desert-pea.
And I beheld a building
That made a stately show -
The National Australian
Head Poetry Bureau.
I gazed upon that Building
With trembling joy aghast;
The long-felt want of ages
Was filled (I thought) at last.
No more the Native Poet
Need wildly beat his head
For lofty lyric measures
To buy him beer and bed.
Now he would lodge right nobly
And sleep serene, secure,
All in a chamber filled with
Adhesive furniture.
For never foot of Bailiff
Should pass his threshold o'er,
And never knock of landlord
Sound direful on his door.
The State should also aid him
To build his lofty rhyme
On lordly eggs-and-bacon,
And sausages sublime.
And he should drink no longer
Cheap beer at common bar,
But royal wine of Wunghnu
At two-and-nine the jar.
It was a vision splendid,
And brighter still did grow
When I was made the Chief of
The Poetry Bureau.
They clad me all in purple,
They hung me with festoons,
My singing-robes were spangled
With aluminium moons.
And, as a sign of genius
Above the common kind,
A wreath of gilded laurel
Around my hat they twined.
They also gave me power to
The grain sift from the chaff,
And choose at my large pleasure
My own poetic staff.
Then straightaway I appointed
To chant by day and night,
The brilliant young Australian
Who sang 'The Land of Light.'
I also gave in fashion
Hilariously free,
The Girl and Horse Department
In charge of Ogilvie.
And on the roof-ridge Brady
Sang salt-junk chanties great
To cheer the stout sea-lawyers
Who sail the Ship of State.
And tender-hearted Lawson
Sang everybody's wrongs;
And Brennan, in the basement,
Crooned weird, symbolic songs.
And on the throne beside me,
Above the common din,
He sang his Songs of Beauty,
My friend, the poet Quinn.
Our own Australian artists
Made beautiful its halls -
The mighty steeds of Mahony
Pranced proudly on the walls.
Tom Roberts, he was there, too,
With painted portraits fine
Of men of light and leading -
Me, and some friends of mine.
And Souter's Leering Lady,
'Neath hat and over fan,
With Souter's cat was ogling
His check-clothed gentleman.
And Fischer, Ashton, Lister,
With beetling genius rife -
Pardieu! I was their Patron,
And set them up for life.
And from each dusky corner,
In petrified new birth,
Glared busts of Me and Barton,
By Nelson Illingworth.
And nine fair Muses dwelt there,
With board and lodging free;
Six by the States were chosen,
And I selected three.
And there we turned out blithely
Australian poems sound,
To sell in lengths like carpet,
And also by the pound.
For Paddy Quinn, the Statesman,
Had made a law which said
That native authors only
On pain of death be read.
O, brother bards, I grieve that
Good dreams do not come true;
You see how very nobly
I would have done to you!
But, ah! the vision vanished,
And took away in tow
The National Australian
Head Poetry Bureau.