Off the Blue Bush | Project Gutenberg

[29]
THE VERSEMAKERS.

Just now and then when evenings creep

With languid feet to meet the sea,

The days go by to sleep their sleep

With all the past eternity—

When earth takes on the wondrous hue

Far shed from arcs beyond our ken,

We weave a vagrant verse or two,

Just now and then.

Just now and then, ere shadows fall

Across the threshold of the door,

And restless hands upon the wall

Retrace Ambition’s creed no more—

Apart from cankered strife and stress

That urge the stumbling feet of men,

We scrawl a verselet purposeless,

Just now and then.

Just now and then, though time glides on

From scene to scene, from year to year,

Till every “Cloth of Gold” is gone,

Till every leaf is brown and sere,

Life’s picture holds no glinting sheen,

We seek the inky shrine again

To paint our landscape gold and green,

Just now and then.

[30]
Just now and then a lilting thought

May break the reign of monotone

That claims our camp to hold its court,

That claims our chair to hold its throne.

Thrice welcome, then! on silent wing,

The friends who come from hill or glen

To overthrow life’s tyrant king,

Just now and then.

Just now and then, when skies are clear,

And winter evenings wilt and wane,

Beside the glowing hearth we hear

The echo of some old refrain—

Some half-remembered distant dream

That calls the rhymer’s halting pen

To mend a broken rhythmic theme

Just now and then.

[Decoration: Black Swan]

[31]
DREAMS.

Away! Away!

Let sluggards stay

The sluggish ruck within,

While Beauty stands

With outstretched hands

To welcome those who win!

And gems divine

And wealth and wine

Are strewn upon the board,

Where life and love

Go hand and glove,

Like slaves before their lord!

The motors fly,

The ships go by,

The tram-cars whizz and whirr—

I see them pass

As in a glass,

Where dim-limned shadows stir:

I long to hail

Some friendly sail

Ere all the throng be past—

Then failure’s sense

And indolence

Reach down and hold me fast.

[32]
Away! Away!

To act to-day!

The victor’s creed is Now—

A cloudless brain,

An easy rein,

A firm hand on the plough!

Aside is flung

The pall that hung

From damned Inaction’s mast ...

Then half-thought themes

And dreamer’s dreams

Reach down ... and hold me fast.

[Illustration: Man seated at desk]

[33]
TILL DAY IS DONE.

What does it matter

Though wealth pass by,

Where follies flatter

And red lips lie—

Though cloud shades darken

The spring-time sheen,

And dull threads mingle

Life’s woof between—

Which winds blow whither

O’er land and sea—

What does it matter

To you and me?

Here at the door of

Our Peace-thatched cot

Cosmea nods, and

Forget-me-not

Seems to say from

Its eyes of blue,

“Life is fairest

Where hearts are true!”

[34]
And far beyond, where

The world is wide,

Where wrecked lives drift on

An ebbing tide,

There is a garland

A queen may wear,

Of sweet boronia

And maidenhair.

Never grey thyme, or

A spray of rue

Tarnish the garland

I’ve twined for you!

Let love-fires light, in

Each fragrant gem

A setting fair for

Your diadem!

What though its petals

May, one by one,

Pale grow and pass with

The mid-day’s sun—

Though velvet fingers

At midnight’s hush

Shall paint your tresses

With silvered brush—

Though shadows creep, and

The earth grows wan,

Our love will last

As the years roll on!

[35]
With hand in hand, with

Our hearts that beat

Time to the music

Of twinkling feet—

Wrapped in a dream that

Will live and last

Into the night

When the day is past—

Though sails be set for

The shoreless sea—

What will it matter

To you and me?

[Decoration: Man with swag walking away]

[36]
TO YOU.

I love you, Sweetheart! better far than all;

And still will love, with love that makes or mars,

When round my head eternal curtains fall,

And sleep shall close the eyelids of the stars:

Though all the houris of celestial bars

Should lure me on with eyes of liquid light,

Joined to the wondrous music of guitars,

Without you there, my blood were cold and white!

Beyond that phase of something some call death

I want to love you always, just as now—

To feel my cheek fanned by your clover breath,

And feel your hand press sometimes on my brow:

I would not turn one instant from the plough,

But follow on from starry fence to fence,

And question not the whither, whence, or how,

With you as earnest of God’s providence!

And when at last my evening glooms and greys,

And when, at last, my last sun westward dips,

And I go out upon dim, unknown ways

Where men are borne on heavenly spirit-ships,

I’ll watch and wait their oft-returning trips,

Hoping for you to step upon the quay,

That I may clasp you heart to heart with me,

And kiss you ... thus ... upon your rose-red lips!

[37]
THE GOSPEL OF SHIRK.

The strenuous rhymer appals me to-night

With the pitch of his strenuous song

That shrieks for the god or the goddess of Right!

Or that lashes the legions of Wrong

With a vicious and venomous thong—

By Crumbs!

With a knotted and merciless thong!

He points, with the pointer of arrogant rhyme,

To the pathway of Wealth and Renown,

Where weary fools falter and fall, as they climb

To their Goal, that so grimly looks down

From its gloomy and sinister crown—

Ah me!

From its blasted and desolate crown!

And still, on the stretch of the moon-silvered sand,

With the ripple of waves on the bar

There comes, from a point jutting down from the land,

A discordant Voice, echoing far:

“Steer your boat, steer your boat for a star!”

There you are!

And the Voice is quite sure of the star!

[38]
And to-night, dear Eileen! in our cockle-shell ship,

To our star that is constant and true,

We will float on the stream where the willow-boughs dip

’Neath a sky that is wondrously blue,

And a myriad eyes twinkle through—

All for you!

And for me, while I live loving you!

Let earnest men answer the crack of the whip,

With their shibbolethed banners aflap—

On the fur-covered planks of our cockle-shell ship,

As I lie with my head on your lap,

I do not care one Commonwealth rap

What may hap!

Not — one — blooming — young — Commonwealth — rap!

Let other hands delve ’mid the garbage and grime,

And let other lips puff till they blaze—

Oh! ’tis weary work marching when fools beat the time—

But ’tis easy to drift and to laze

All our nights and our jubilant days,

Sweet Eileen!

All our nights, starry nights, and our days!

[39]
UNDER THE HEEL OF FATE.

Stay we here as the crowd goes by,

Twining along the street—

Listless steps and a half-breathed sigh;

Laughter and twinkling feet:

Care-worn faces where Time has set

Pathos in every line:

Budding Hope with a dead Regret—

Rue and roses and mignonette

Bunched in a queer design!

One is clad in a purple gown;

One in a skirt of grey;

Brushing past where the lights beat down,

Following each her way:

One is marked by a barefoot son;

One by a florid beau,

Tangled still was the skein she spun—

She who slept when the day was done ...

Say—was it ordered so?

See who comes with the drunkard’s gait

Out from the taproom door!

He was born to a man’s estate,

White to his inmost core:

Few were turned from the Master’s hand

Fit to compare with Jim ...

Now by the world despised and banned,

Clear as day shows the damning brand

Destiny placed on him!

[40]
Fools may prate of a will that’s free,

Else of their strength and brain:

Know they not that the jarrah tree

Only splits with the grain?

Think they not that a man denies,

Or takes his faith on trust—

Not from the words of the foolish wise,

Not from the vision of sightless eyes—

But just because he must!

So pass they, while the music plays,

Tramping to God knows where:

Some goal His in the outer haze

Waiting the pilgrims there;

But if, as preachers aver, it be

Part of some changeless plan

Typed in the shop of Eternity,

Never a sentence, my friends, did we

Write for the play of “Man”!

[41]
DREAMING THE DREAM OF LIFE.

A fig for the world and its carping cares,

Its worry and wear and fret—

A fig for the poppies that passion wears,

Fast followed by dull regret:

A fig for the glitter, and gilt, and gaud

That’s won in a tawdry strife,

Filling the world with the clash of swords—

Marring the sweetest of human chords

Born in the valleys where dreamers wait,

Dreaming the dream of Life.

If I own no love for the arts that mould

The minds and the souls of men,

There lurks no charm in the miser’s gold,

Or the heft of the writer’s pen.

I wear no frown for the clod below,

No cringe for the clown above;

For I tread but the path where the roses blow,

And I pin one bud to her breast of snow,

And I weave a glorious wreath to crown

My goddess of Peace and Love.

[42]
Her liquid eyes are a hazel grey

And her lips are ruby red,

And the dusk of the night and the light of day

In the depths of her glance are wed.

The old world hustles on eager feet,

And its songs are the songs of strife,

But we stand aside from the glare and heat

And we draw the curtain of Love’s retreat—

This dainty spirit of youth and I

Dreaming the dream of Life.

A fig for the warrior’s crown of fame!

For the faithless world’s caress!

A fig for the poet’s or painter’s name

Whose haven is nothingness!

A fig for the transient light divine

That halos some godlike head!

For the Spring-time breaks and the stars all shine,

And the world goes round for this wife of mine ...

Oh, the spirit of languorous love will live

When the spirit of strife is dead!

[Decoration: Man leading camel]

[43]
A GLIMPSE OF SUMMER.

While the world’s a-bustle

On the upward grade—

Straining brain and muscle,

Plying pen and spade—

Let us go a-dreaming,

With your hair a-streaming ...

Cupid lies a-scheming

’Neath the mulga shade.

How the rabble clatters

As it hurries by!

Chasing Passion’s tatters,

Sighing Passion’s sigh.

Soft airs, sandal-scented,

Fan us: golden-tinted,

Like a landscape minted,

Plain and hill-top lie.

Willy-willies whirling

Play for me and you,

Curling up, and curling,

Till they reach the blue:

Like a giant sweeping,

Creeping on, and creeping

’Mongst the trees, a-sleeping

Mid-day’s languor through.

[44]
Bell-bird notes are swelling

Upward from the glade;

Lovelorn swains are telling

Love-tales worn and frayed:

Let them strain their tether!

You and I together

Never wilt a feather,

Lolling in the shade.

Earnest souls, or sighing,

Death has ever paid!

See pale Effort lying

Rue- and wreath-arrayed!

Come then, Jean, a-dreaming,

With your hair a-streaming ...

Cupid lies a-scheming

’Neath the mulga shade.

[Decoration: Mining equipment]

[45]
THE END OF THE EPISODE.

There is no need to say Good-bye,

And weep;

There is no call on us for tear or sigh.

Men say: “Just as ye sow, so shall ye reap.”

Is that, think you, a lie?

Now fate points out our different ways,

And so

We leave the spot where glamour clothed the days—

Leave for those duller worlds that lie below,

With something like amaze.

No use to curse: whatever crossed

Our way:

No need for words: when hearts are tempest-tossed—

But those alone may know the cost, who pay,

And bankrupt, pay the cost.

[46]
THE GOLDEN AGE.

Then life was young

And roses hung

In gay festoons from star to star,

And o’er the farm

A silvered charm,

The moonlight, flooded full and far—

The moonlight, telling wondrous tales

Of things that are not, and that are.

How strange the thrall

Around it all!

The subtle flapping of a wing!

You plainly hear

Each wheaten spear

Unto its neighbour whispering,

And almost catch their secrets, too—

Those kindred children of the Spring!

And, watching so,

The branches throw

Fantastic shadows on the grass:

How quaint and clear

Their lines appear!

A woven way where fancies pass—

Those secret bairns, that come to most,

And live and breathe—but die—alas!

[47]
No longer chimes

The gold of rhymes

That would make music, ay or nay!

I number still

The month, at will,

Clare gave to me a lilac spray ...

’Tis dead and withered now—how long?

An age, a year, or yesterday.

Thus rhyme and spray

Have turned to clay,

While Discord plays on life’s guitar ...

’Twere wise and meet

To book a seat,

A cushioned seat, in Daphne’s car,

While bright eyes shine, and roses twine

In gay festoons from star to star!

[Decoration: Gold mining camp]

[48]
AT PARTING.

I sit beside you, this last afternoon,

And watch the sunset’s change from gold to grey,

That mirrors well my life of yesterday

Where shadows, born of twilight, fell so soon.

And yet, you seemed so womanly and true—

I never guessed “’Twas but to kill the time!”

For I, who dwelt in Passion’s summer clime,

Played for a life that centred all in you.

I’ve spun no webs, as money-spiders spin,

Nor stacked the shining shekels row on row;

And yet I have one plea—I love you so!

And fatuously dreamed that love might win.

For me this old world smiled when you were by;

Life’s circles spread their limits wider yet;

There came no grey train-bearers of regret

To grace the triumph of hypocrisy.

My heart throbbed to the rustle of your dress;

My soul drank in each message of your eyes;

For Love, they say, is all our paradise,

And wanting Love, this life were nothingness.

But ere we part—O girl grown worldly-wise!—

I place one glory-rose amid your hair,

And kiss your lips, with something of despair:

For, Dear, I love you yet—and yet despise.

[49]
THE LEADEN HOOF.

What use to puff a blackened fire

Grown emberless within the grate?

What use to twang a damaged lyre

That’s only half articulate?

What use for dumb

Desire to thumb

The leaves of a curriculum

When other men matriculate?

’Tis vain to plan a fabric gay

With tangled warp and broken woof—

Just listen for a moment, pray,

—A magpie singing on the roof—

Just hear, and then

Throw down the pen:

The songs and wings of common men

Are anchored to a leaden hoof.

And yet, are other days, that bear

No weight of pessimistic sin—

A laurel leaf for me to wear,

A thought to stir, a smile to win;

And o’er the sea

There comes to me

The echo of a symphony

That sets the smiling world a-spin.

[50]
Now carmine-hued are Renée’s lips,

A thousand gleams light life’s old wine—

I tremble to the finger tips

To breathe devotion at her shrine;

But while I write,

Some blasting light

Reveals my rose an ashen white

That crumbles in these hands of mine.

What use to fret a halting brain

While inspiration holds aloof?

And hark! the voice bursts forth again,

—A magpie singing on the roof—

Just hear, and then

Throw down the pen:

The songs and wings of common men

Are tethered to a leaden hoof.

[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]

[51]
THE PILGRIMAGE.

For many a year we wandered

over hill and dale and mountain,

For ever pressing onward

till we’re nearly worn and old:

Searching for some spot Elysian

where the poets’ crystal fountain

Sings its songs of calm contentment

in a valley draped with gold:

Where the flowers bloom for ever

’neath the sun’s life-giving kisses,

But never droop ’neath thirsty skies

or feel the winter’s chill:

Where roses wreath an arbour

where no fatal adder hisses,

And the promise of our youthful dreams

our later days fulfil.

Then the purple flush of morning

thrilled our careless hearts with pleasure,

And the sunbeams shooting downward

with our spirit shared their glow:

Once every bell and buttercup

that blossomed was a treasure—

In those days that we have dreamed of,

in the misty long-ago.

[52]
But the joys of life would pall upon

the heart that they for ever,

Unbroken by a shadow,

lit with one eternal glare;

And the bonds of love are strengthened

by the thought that they may sever,

And are hallowed in the memory

of lives and loves that were.

The ropes of sand that bound us

then appeared so deftly woven

That we noticed not each single grain

the breezes swept away,

Nor underneath the robe of Beauty,

silken-cased, the cloven

Hoof of Time, that swept the garlands

into ruin and decay.

[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]

[29] THE VERSEMAKERS.

[31] DREAMS.

[33] TILL DAY IS DONE.

[36] TO YOU.

[37] THE GOSPEL OF SHIRK.

[39] UNDER THE HEEL OF FATE.

[41] DREAMING THE DREAM OF LIFE.

[43] A GLIMPSE OF SUMMER.

[45] THE END OF THE EPISODE.

[46] THE GOLDEN AGE.

[48] AT PARTING.

[49] THE LEADEN HOOF.

[51] THE PILGRIMAGE.

[29]
THE VERSEMAKERS.

[31]
DREAMS.

[33]
TILL DAY IS DONE.

[36]
TO YOU.

[37]
THE GOSPEL OF SHIRK.

[39]
UNDER THE HEEL OF FATE.

[41]
DREAMING THE DREAM OF LIFE.

[43]
A GLIMPSE OF SUMMER.

[45]
THE END OF THE EPISODE.

[46]
THE GOLDEN AGE.

[48]
AT PARTING.

[49]
THE LEADEN HOOF.

[51]
THE PILGRIMAGE.