To eastward, when cluster by cluster, In the gathering of night gloom o'erhead, in All fire-flushed when forest trees redden When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks Eucalyptian In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles When each dew-laden air-draught resembles When the sky-line's blue burnish'd resistance Adam Lindsay Gordon. The Sick Stockrider WAS merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass, To wander as we've wandered many a mile, And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass, Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while. 'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs, To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs; Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard. I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil, And life is short-the longest life a span; I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil, vain, 'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know I should live the same life over, if I had to live again; And the chances are I go where most men go. The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim, The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall; And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim, And on the very sun's face weave their pall. Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave, With never stone or rail to fence my bed; Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave, I may chance to hear them romping overhead. Adam Lindsay Gordon. Drought Y road is fenced with the bleached, white bones M Beside me a suffering, dumb world moans On the rim of the world the lightnings play, And the breath of the wind is a sword to slay I have withered the grass where my hot hoofs tread, I have driven the faint-heart rains ahead To hide in their soft green seas. I have bound the plains with an iron band, To the charge of my vanguards who shall stand? The dust-storms follow and wrap me round; I drop the whips on the loose-flanked steers; I lure the swagman out of the road To the gleam of a phantom lake; I have laid him down, I have taken his load, My hurrying hoofs in the night go by, And the great flocks bleat their fear And follow the curve of the creeks burnt dry The worn men start from their sleepless rest They cursed the red Sun into the west They have carried their outposts far, far out, W. H. Ogilvie. The Women of the West HEY left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill, The houses in the busy streets where life is never still, The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best: For love they faced the wilderness-the Women of the West. 4 The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away, And the old-time joys and faces-they were gone for many a day; In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains, O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains. In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run, In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun, In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest, On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West. The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain, The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again; And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away. The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires, When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires, And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West. For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts. But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love. G. E. Evans. |