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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Tripoli

One to ten of you lesser men—these are the odds we crave: For the ring of the sword, at the cry to board, is a song that befits the brave. Board and burn, that ye well may learn, how American tars atone: Borrow ye may, but there dawns a day when we come to claim our own!

Tripolitan pirate and Turkish thief, they had harried her there on the sunken reef, Plundered, and robbed, and stripped her crew, for such was Tripoli law: Lowered her barred and star-set flag, and run to her peak their pirate rag, For the shaming of William Bainbridge and the fame of Jussuf Bashaw! They had towed the wreck to the haven’s neck, and under the castle’s guns, And bound and jailed all them that sailed as the Philadelphia’s sons: So the frigate lay in Tripoli Bay, by the Molehead batteries pinned, And along her flank, in a watchful rank, the guardian gunboats grinned!

Out of the Gulf of Sidra’s gales, a brig and a ketch, with flattened sails, Slid toward Tripoli harbor as the sun ahead went down, And, by the forts of Jussuf Bashaw pinned like prey in a panther’s paw, The captured frigate at anchor saw, in the curve of the pirate town. And one of the pair had the peaceful air of a merchantman landward led, And one of the two a Maltese crew, in fezzes of flaming red; But they muttered on deck as they marked the speck of the flag that swung on high Where the crimson bars and the silver stars had rippled against the sky!

Then a wind came out of the cool northwest, and lifted the ketch on a heaving crest, Bulging her sails till the sea sang low at the touch of her slender prore, And she leapt, with the joy of a living soul, through the narrow channel ’twixt reef and shoal, And ran, like a racer, toward the goal of the tall black hull inshore! But the brig lay to on the darkening blue of the offing, a mile outside, And watched the ketch on the rippling stretch of the fort-girt harbor ride, Till out of the light she slid from sight, tackle, and sails, and mast, Undismayed, in the sombre shade that the hull of the frigate cast.

Now the staunch Sicilian pilot cried to them that leaned on the frigate’s side: “This is the Stella of Malta, with her anchors swept away, And her cables, too, to the very last, when the storm of yester night went past. So we crave your leave to take a fast from your quarter until the day.” “And what ye ask is an easy task” an officer made reply. “Since ye have no line, I will send you mine, with leave in our lee to lie.” So the ketch crept near to the frigate’s sheer, and, swung by the swirling tide, Veered around, till her bowsprit ground on the Philadelphia’s side.

Then Stephen Decatur’s slender sword in the moonlight winked, as he thundered “Board!” The hatches yawned on the ketch’s deck, and, quick as a man may turn, Up from her hold, with a stirring shout, sixty American tars leapt out, And mounted the frigate’s black redoubt like a wave that breaks astern! And the startled night saw such a fight as none but the desperate make, Blow on blow from foe to foe for the Philadelphia’s sake! Cheer on cheer, as the end drew near, and a final charge, and then The frigate lay in Tripoli Bay—an American ship again !

From twoscore ports the smoke-wreaths crept, and a single rocket skyward leapt To tell the brig in the offing that Decatur’s work was done, As the victors sprang to the ketch’s deck, and pulled away from the blazing wreck That reddened the tide to the harbor’s neck, with news of the glory won! And the slim flames struck from rail to truck, till the haven gleamed and glowed, And the whole wide night was ablaze with light where Decatur’s oarsmen rowed; While Tripoli’s sons from a hundred guns sent shot from the shelving shore. And the frigate replied with her last broadside—an American ship once more!

But Stewart had seen that Decatur’s crew had done the work that they came to do, And the boats of the brig lay close inshore, as the ketch out-won her way; Watching, the oarsmen, drawing near, pause in their rowing, and, deaf to fear, Rise to their feet with a stunning cheer in a harbor light as day! Over the tide from the boats outside the answering cheer came in, The hail of his mate who must watch and wait to the lad who may work and win! And Decatur’s men, at their sweeps again, sped on from the panther’s paw, While the frigate flamed, by her own reclaimed, at the gates of Jussuf Bashaw!

One to ten of you lesser men—these are the odds we crave: For the ring of the sword, at the cry to board, is a song that befits the brave. Board and burn, that ye well may learn how American tars atone: Borrow ye may, but there dawns a day when we come to claim our own!

, 1902.


text:
The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Gloria Mundi

Magician hands through long, laborious nights Have made these princely palaces to loom Whiter than are the city’s legion lights, On threads unseen stretched out across the gloom. Reared in an hour, for one brief hour to reign, The proud pavilions watchful hold in fee A world’s achievements, where the stately Seine Slides slowly past her bridges to the sea.

Mute and memorial, as on either bank She sees the marvel worked before her eyes, Beholds as in a vision, rank on rank. Pagoda, dome, and campanile rise, Like to a mother scowling on a child Sceptred and crowned to make a queen of May, The Seine, that sorrowed not for France defiled, Past France triumphant frowning goes her way.

Yet, dragged reluctant from these ransomed shores, Upon her tide, that sullenly and slow Creeps channelward, the unapparent scores Of history’s spectres disregarded go; And as the Empress City gains the seat Of that imperial throne to which at last By devious ways she comes, beneath her feet The Seine in silence blots away the past.

Blots out the warning of cathedral bells, The night of snowy scarfs, of swords, of staves, The muffled bass of tumbril wheels that tells Of mortal men that dig immortal graves; Blots out the faces, calmly unafraid. Of prince and peasant, courtesan and queen. When men made martyrs and were martyrs made, When France meant Hell and God meant Guillotine!

Like pilgrims whom a holy city calls, The peoples bring their miracles to her; The world of peace lays down within her walls Its gifts of gold, and frankincense, and myrrh: The West, wide-eyed, alert, intrepid, young, With rush of shuttles and the song of steam; The East, that, lotus-eating, gropes among The half-remembered fragments of her dream.

From minarets the muezzins call to prayer, From violins the mad mazurkas rise, And western rangers watch in wonder, where The camel boy his listless lash applies: And nations warring, or that late have warred, Their feuds forgot, their battles under ban, Proclaim above the clamor of the sword The pæan of the mastery of man.

Man! Born to grovel in a squalid cave, Whose hand it is that every door unbars. Whose cables cleave three thousand miles of wave, Whose lenses tear their secrets from the stars! Man! Naked, dull, unarmed, barbaric, dumb, What magic path is this that he had trod? Through what refining furnace hath he come, This demi-brute become a demi-god?

As some great river merges every song Of tributary waters in its own, To blend in turn its music in the strong Full measure of the ocean’s monotone— So this triumphant anthem, skyward sent Man’s marvellous finale to presage, Within its thunderous diapason blent, The keynote holds of each succeeding age!

For here the whip-lash sings above the slaves Who bend despairing to the galley’s oars; The hoarse hail rings, across the sunlit waves, Of vikings bound to unexploited shores: Here is the chant of ransomed Israel’s joy, The moan of Egypt stricken in her home, The challenge of the Grecian host to Troy, The shout of Huns before the gates of Rome:

The oaths of sailors on the galleon’s decks, The welcome of Columbus to the land, The prayers upon the doomed Armada’s wrecks, The rallying cry of Braddock’s final stand; Trafalgar’s cannon, and the bugle’s calls Where France’s armies thread the Alpine gorge, The Campbell’s pipes heard near to Lucknow’s walls, The patriot’s hymn that hallowed Valley Forge!

All, all are here! The feeble and the strong; The spoiled beside the victors of the spoil Of twenty centuries swell the sacred song Of human triumph won by human toil! Up and yet upward to the heaven’s wide arch The thunders of the great thanksgiving roll To mark the way of that majestic march Of mortal man toward his Maker’s goal!

And while the echo of her folly dies, As in the hills the sound of village bells, Upward from Paris to the April skies Her hymn of rehabilitation swells; From dark to dawn, from weakness back to strength, The pendulum majestically swings, And o’er the ashes of her past at length The phœnix of her future spreads its wings!

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Rh the masts of boats and canoes. I promised Jack to allow him to cut some on our return; but at present the ass was my sole care. When we had crossed the wood, we suddenly came face to face on a herd of buffaloes, not numerous certainly, but formidable in appearance. At the sight, I was absolutely petrified, and my gun useless. Fortunately the dogs were in the rear, and the animals, lifting their heads, and fixing their large eyes on us, seemed more astonished than angry—we were the first men probably they had ever seen.

We drew back a little, prepared our arms, and endeavoured to retreat, when the dogs arrived, and, notwithstanding our efforts to restrain them, flew at the buffaloes. It was not time now to retreat; the combat was begun. The whole troop uttered the most frightful roars, beat the ground with their feet, and butted with their horns. Our brave dogs were not intimidated, but marched straight upon the enemy, and, falling on a young buffalo that had strayed before the rest, seized it by the ears. The creature began to bellow, and struggle to escape; its mother ran to its assistance, and with her, the whole herd. At that moment,—I tremble as I write it, I gave the signal to my brave Jack, who behaved with admirable coolness, and at the same moment we fired on the herd. The effect was wonderful: they paused a moment, and then, even before the smoke was dissipated, took to flight with incredible rapidity, forded the river, and were soon out of sight. My dogs still held their prize, and the mother, though wounded by our shot, tore up the ground in her fury, and was advancing on the dogs to destroy them; but I stepped forward, and


text:
The Garden of Years and Other Poems/The Fog

The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow, Southwardly shifting, far inshore, so never a man might know How the sea it trod with feet soft-shod, watching the distance dim. Where the fishing-fleet to the eastward beat, white dots on the ocean’s rim. Feeling the sands with its furtive hands, fingering cape and cove. Where the sweet salt smells of the nearer swells up the sloping hillside rove; Where the whimpering sea-gulls swoop and soar, and the great king-herons go, The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

Then a stillness fell on crag and cliff, on beach and breaker fell, As the sea-breeze brought on its final whiff the note of a distant bell, One faint, far sound, and the fog unwound its mantle across the lea. Joined hand in hand with a wind from land, and the twain went out to sea. And the wind that rose spoke soft, of those who watch on the cliffs at dawn, And the fog’s white lips, of sinking ships where the tortured tempests spawn, As, each to each, they told once more such things as fishers know, When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !

Oh, the wan, white hours go limping by, when that pall comes in between The great, blue bell of the cloudless sky and the ocean’s romping green! Nor sane young day, nor swirl of spray, as the cat’s-paws lunge and lift;— On sad, slow waves, like the mounds of graves, the fishermen’s dories drift. For the fishing-craft that leapt and laughed are swallowed in ghostly gray: Only God’s eyes may see where lies the lap of the sheltered bay, So their dories grope, for lost their lore, witlessly to and fro, When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !

Oh, men of the fleet, ’t is ye who learn, of the white fog’s biting breath, That life may hang on the way ye turn, or the way ye turn be death! Though they on the lea look out to sea for the woe or the weal of you, The ominous East, like a hungry beast, is waiting your tidings, too. A night and a day, mayhap, ye stray; a day and a night, perchance, The dory is led toward Marblehead, or pointed away for France; The shore may save, or the sea may score, in the unknown final throw, When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

Ah, God of the Sea, what joy there lies in that first faint hint of sun!— When the pallid curtains sulking rise, and the reaches wider run, When a wind from the west on the sullen breast of the waters shoulders near, And the blessed blue of the sky looks through, as the fog-wreaths curl and clear. Ah, God, what joy when the gallant buoy, swung high on a sudden swell, Puts fear to flight like a dream of night with its calm, courageous bell, And the dory trips the sea’s wide floor with the verve ’t was wont to know, And the fog slinks back to Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

, 1901.


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134 a pistol between the horns, put an end to her life.

We began to breathe. We had looked death in the face,—a most horrible death; and thanked God for our preservation. I praised Jack for his courage and presence of mind; any fear or agitation on his part would have unnerved me, and rendered our fate certain. The dogs still held the young calf by the ears, it bellowed incessantly, and I feared they would either be injured or lose their prize. I went up to their assistance. I hardly knew how to act. I could easily have killed it; but I had a great desire to carry it off alive, and try to tame it, to replace our ass, whom I did not intend to follow farther. A happy idea struck Jack: he always carried his lasso in his pocket; he drew it out, retired a little, and flung it so dexterously that he completely wound it round the hind legs of the calf, and threw it down. I now approached; I replaced the lasso by a stronger cord, and used another to bind his fore legs loosely. Jack cried victory, and already thought how his mother and brothers would be delighted, when we presented it; but that was no easy matter. At last I thought of the method used in Italy to tame the wild bulls, and I resolved to try it, though it was a little cruel.

I began by tying to the foot of a tree the cords that held the legs; then making the dogs seize him again by the ears, I caught hold of his mouth, and with a sharp knife perforated the nostril, and quickly passed a cord through the opening. This cord was to serve as my rein, to guide the animal. The operation was successful; and, as soon as the blood ceased to flow, I took


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Harlequin

The world lay brown and barren at the closing of the year, Where the rushes shook and shuddered on the borders of the mere, And the troubled tide ran shoreward, where the estuaries twined Through the wide and empty marsh toward the sullen hills behind: And the smoke-engirdled city sulked beneath the leaden skies, With the rain-tears slowly sliding from her million window eyes, And the fog-ghost limped and lingered past the buildings clad in grime, Till the Frost King gave the signal for the Christmas pantomime!

Then we heard the winds of winter on their brazen trumpets blow The summons for the ballet of the nimble-footed snow, And the flakes, all silver-spangled, through the mazy measures wound, Till each finished out his figure, and took station on the ground. And the drifts, in shining armor, and with gem-encrusted shields, Spread their wide-deployed battalions on the drill-ground of the fields, Till the hillside shone and shimmered with the armies of the rime, As the Frost King gave the signal for the Christmas pantomime !

He spread a crystal carpet on the rush-encircled pond, And looped about with ermine all the hemlock-trees beyond: He strung his gleaming icicles along the scowling eaves, And decked the barren branches of the oak with snowy leaves, And, when the world was silver-girt with garland and festoon, He drew the cloudy curtain that had lain across the moon, And his wand awoke the wonders of his dazzling distant clime, When the Frost King gave the signal for the Christmas pantomime!

Then around the benches, crowded with the audience of earth, Ran the sound of hands applauding, and of little people’s mirth, And the air was full of savors such as only Christmas knows, When the ruddy cottage windows cast their roses on the snows: And the Fire-God cracked the drift-wood ’twixt his fingers and his thumbs, And the merry pop-corn answered like the roll of little drums, While the snow-clad belfries wakened, and the midnight heard their chime, As the Frost King gave the signal for the Christmas pantomime!

With blaze of starry splendor, and with brilliance of the moon, With fir-trees dressed grotesquely, like the slippered Pantaloon, With snowflakes light as fairies, and with slender ivy vines In their spangled winter-dresses, like a host of Columbines; — With sheen of silver scenery, and sleigh-bells’ merry din, The whole world laughed and capered ’neath the wand of Harlequin! With the cap and bells of Folly he invested Father Time, When the Frost King gave the signal for the Christmas pantomime !

, 1902.


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Rh the cord, uniting the two ends, and the poor suffering creature, completely subdued, followed me without resistance.

I was unwilling to abandon the whole of the buffalo I had killed, as it is excellent meat; I therefore cut out the tongue, and some of the best parts from the loin, and covered them well with salt, of which we had taken a provision with us. I then carefully skinned the four legs, remembering that the American hunters use these skins for boots, being remarkably soft and flexible. We permitted the dogs to feast on the remainder; and while they were enjoying themselves, we washed ourselves, and sat down under a tree to rest and refresh ourselves. But the poor beasts had soon many guests at their banquet. Clouds of birds of prey came from every part; an incessant combat was kept up; no sooner was one troop of brigands satisfied, than another succeeded; and soon all that remained of the poor buffalo was the bones. I noticed amongst these ravenous birds the royal vulture, an elegant bird, remarkable for a brilliant collar of down. We could easily have killed some of these robbers, but I thought it useless to destroy for mere curiosity, and I preferred employing our time in cutting, with a small saw we had brought, some of the gigantic reeds that grew round us. We cut several of the very thick ones, which make excellent vessels when separated at the joints; but I perceived that Jack was cutting some of small dimensions, and I inquired if he was going to make a Pandean pipe, to celebrate his triumphal return with the buffalo.

"No," said he; "I don’t recollect that


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136 Crusoe amused himself with music in his island; but I have thought of something that will be useful to mamma. I am cutting these reeds to make moulds for our candles."

"An excellent thought, my dear boy!" said I; "and if even we break our moulds in getting out the candles, which I suspect we may, we know where they grow, and can come for more."

We collected all our reeds in bundles, and then set out. The calf intimidated by the dogs, and galled by the rein, went on tolerably well. We crossed the narrow pass in the rocks, and here our dogs killed a large jackal which was coming from her den in the rock. The furious animals then entered the den, followed by Jack, who saved, with difiiculty, one of the young cubs, the others being immediately worried. It was a pretty little gold-coloured creature, about the size of a cat. Jack petitioned earnestly to have it to bring up; and I made him happy by granting his request.

In the mean time I had tied the calf to a low tree, which I discovered was the thorny dwarf palm, which grows quickly, and is extremely useful for fences. It bears an oblong fruit, about the size of a pigeon's egg, from which is extracted an oil which is an excellent substitute for butter. I determined to return for some young plants of this palm to plant at Tent House.

It was almost night when we joined our family; and endless were the questions the sight of the buffalo produced, and great was the boasting of Jack the dauntless. I was compelled to lower his pride a little by an unvarnished statement, though I gave him much credit for his coolness and resolution; and, supper-time arriving, my wife had


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Rh time to tell me what had passed while we had been on our expedition.

wife began by saying they had not been idle in my absence. They had collected wood, and made torches for the night. Fritz and Ernest had even cut down an immense sago—palm, seventy feet high, intending to extract its precious pith; but this they had been unable to accomplish alone, and waited for my assistance. But while they were engaged in this employment, a troop of monkeys had broken into the tent and pillaged and destroyed everything; they had drunk or overturned the milk, and carried off or spoiled all our provisions; and even so much injured the palisade I had erected round the tent, that it took them an hour, after they returned, to repair the damage. Fritz had made also a beautiful capture, in a nest he had discovered in the rocks at Cape Disappointment. It was a superb bird, and, though very young, quite feathered. Ernest had pronounced it to be the eagle of Malabar, and I confirmed his assertion; and as this species of eagle is not large, and does not requ1re much food, I advised him to train it as a falcon, to chase other birds. I took this opportunity to announce that henceforward every one must attend to his own live stock, or they would be set at liberty, mamma having sufficient to manage in her own charge.

We then made a fire of green wood, in the


text: The Swiss Family Robinson - 1851/Chapter XXIV


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/The Passing of Pan

Laughter, velvet-lipped, runs ringing All along the woodland ways, While a strange, bewitching singing Fills the glad Arcadian days; Ripple-rocked, the slender naiads Rush-fringed shores expectant scan For attendant hamadryads, Heralding the path of Pan.

Through the swaying bushes sliding, Dark-eyed nymphs before him trip, And the god, with stately striding, Follows, laughter on his lip; While the wild bird-hearts that love him In the haunts untrod by man, Riot rapturously above him, Heralding the path of Pan.

From the yellow beds of mallows Gleams the glint of golden hair, Nereids from the shorewise shallows Fling a greeting on the air; Slim white limbs, divinely fashioned, Of the fair immortal clan Sway to harmonies impassioned, Heralding the path of Pan.

Round his brow a wreath he tosses, Twined with Asphodel and rose, As triumphant o’er the mosses, Song-saluted on he goes; Frail wood-maidens who adore him, When he rests his temples fan— When he rises, run before him, Heralding the path of Pan ! , 1896.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Phœbus Apollo

Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, who are shorn of contempt and pride, Humbled and crushed in a world gone wrong since the smoke on thine altars died; Hear us, Lord of the morning, King of the Eastern Flame, Dawn on our doubts and darkness and the night of our later shame! There are strange gods come among us, of passion, and scorn, and greed; They are throned in our stately cities, our sons at their altars bleed: The smoke of their thousand battles hath blinded thy children’s eyes, And our hearts are sick for a ruler that answers us not with lies, Sick for thy light unblemished, great fruit of Latona’s pain— Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!

Our eyes, of earth grown weary, through the backward ages peer, Till, wooed by our eager craving, the scent of thy birth grows clear And across the calm Ægean, gray-green in the early morn, We hear the cry of the circling swans that salute the god new-born— The challenge of mighty Python, the song of thy shafts that go Straight to the heart of the monster, sped from the loosened bow. Again through the vale of Tempe a magical music rings The songs of the marching muses, the ripple of fingered strings! But this is our dreaming only; we wait for a stronger strain: Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!

There are some among us, Diviner, who know not thy way or will, Some of thy rebel children who bow to the strange gods still; Some that dream of oppression, and many that dream of gold, Whose ears are deaf to the music that gladdened the world of old. But we, the few and the faithful, we are weary of wars unjust, There is left no god of our thousand gods that we love, believe, or trust; In our courts is justice scoffed at, in our senates gold has sway, And the deeds of our priests and preachers make mock of the words they say! Cardinals, kings, and captains, there is left none fit to reign: Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!

We have hearkened to creeds unnumbered, we have given them trial and test, And the creed of thy Delphic temple is still of them all the best; Thy clean-limbed, lithe disciples, slender, and strong, and young, The swing of their long processions, the lilt of the songs they sung, Thine own majestic presence, pursuing the nymph of dawn, In thy chariot eastward blazing, by the swans and griffons drawn; The spell of thy liquid music, once heard in the speeding year: — These are the things, Great Archer, that we yearn to see and hear, For beside thy creed untarnished all others are stale and vain! Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!

Monarch of light and laughter, honor, and trust, and truth, God of all inspiration, King of eternal youth, Whose words are fitted to music as jewels are set in gold, There is need of thy splendid worship in a world grown grim and old! We have drunk the wine of the ages, we are come to the dregs and lees, And the shrines are all unworthy where we bend reluctant knees; The brand of the beast is on us, we grovel, and grope, and err, Wake, Great god of the Morning, the moment has come to stir! The stars of our night of evil on a wan horizon wane: — Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again! , 1900.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/“Whom the World Calls Idle”

He is brother-born to the wind. Its song, in his heart implanted, Stirs and wakes when the morning breaks and the wide horizon burns; He is brother-born to the sea, and visions of isles enchanted Slowly rise to his dreaming eyes from the furrow his labor turns. Child of fate, be it soon or late that his heart he learns to know, Not his to say if he roam or stay when the summons bids him go: Brother-born to the wind of morn, he must share its endless quest Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!

The stretch of the open road, the challenge of heights unmounted, The distant cry of the beasts that lie at the mouth of some latent lair, The sweep of the pathless plain and the speeding of miles uncounted, When the rangers ride, with a star for guide, in the face of the battling air— These are his whose fortune is, like the tireless tide’s, to roam, Brother-born to the wind of morn, with the whole wide world for home: Child of the soil, he must turn from toil to the dim and dreamt-of West, Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!

Song of the stately pines to the winds of northward high lands, Song of the palms across the calms that sleep on the long lagoon, Glamour of breathless dawns on the shores of southward islands, And the mystical light that tells the night of the birth of the tardy moon: These—at the gate of his future fate, where the earthly questings end And the shadows fall—he hath learned to call by the sacred name of friend; These, in the strife of his hapless life, he hath learned to love the best Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!

Then shall it be for us, who have dreamed no dream Elysian, To cry the ban of our fellow-man who brings no grist to mill? ’T is the verve of his viking sires that awakes the plough-boy’s vision, And the rover roil in the child of toil is the roil of the rover still! What is it all, this thrill and thrall, that hath mapped his earthly plan, Unless some gain we may not explain in the onward march of man? Brother-born to the wind of morn, may his lot be not the best Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest? , 1899.


text:
Portal:Queensland

General

 * Letter from John Gould to R. Denny, 15th April 1851 by John Gould
 * Problems of Empire, 1904 by Thomas Allnutt Brassey
 * Page:Problems of Empire.djvu/218
 * Queensland as it appeared in The New Student's Reference Work (1914)
 * Brisbane from the Air, 1919 by Frederick William Thiel

Government
See also State Library of Queensland portal.
 * Constitution Act 1867
 * George Ferguson Bowen from Men of the Time, eleventh edition, 1884 by Thompson Cooper
 * The genesis of Queensland: an account of the first exploring journeys to and over Darling Downs: the earliest days of their occupation; social life; station seeking; the course of discovery, northward and westward; and a resumé of the causes which led to separation from New South Wales.. (1888)
 * Letter to the Sub Inspector of Police Roma Street (1917)

History

 * The Way We Civilise: Black and White; The Native Police, by Carl Adolf Feilberg (1880)
 * A few facts in connection with the Employment of Polynesian Labour in Queensland (1894) by Maurice Hume Black

Journals

 * Queensland geographical journal - volume 1

Religion

 * Alfred Barry from Distinguished Churchmen and Phases of Church Work, 1902 by Charles H. Dant
 * Catholicism in Queensland, 1910 by Victor L. Gray
 * Archdiocese of Brisbane as it appeared in the 1913 Catholic Encyclopedia

Fiction

 * Chapter 11 of The Life of Captain Matthew Flinders, R.N.

Towns and cities

 * Brisbane as it appeared in the 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica
 * Bundaberg as it appeared in the 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica
 * Cairns as it appeared in the 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica
 * Cooktown as it appeared in the 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica
 * Cooktown as it appeared in the 1913 Catholic Encyclopedia
 * Kanaka as it appeared in the 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica
 * Rockhampton as it appeared in the 1913 Catholic Encyclopedia

title: Portal:Queensland


text:
The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Hesperia

Across the stretch of southward seas The zephyr-swept Hesperides Lie smiling, ever smiling; And there the laughter-loving Pan Leads on his joyous woodland clan Through halcyon haunts, unknown to man, With song the hours beguiling. O fair, far land, thy portals Swing only to immortals! Thy scented bowers, thy wondrous flowers, Thy pleasant ways of ease, Thy nights dew-dipped and breathless, Thy birds, unwearied, deathless— These charms untold I’d fain behold, Fair, far Hesperides!

The dusk with all her wealth of stars, The dawn, when clouds like crimson bars Turn all the east to splendor, Bring roseate dreamings unto me Of Nereids flashing from the sea, Who turn their shining eyes to thee, Thou land of music tender. But ah, ’t is useless dreaming— Thy woodland pools that, gleaming Like bits of sky, unruffled lie, Are not for eyes like these; Yet, could my longing vision Behold thy fields Elysian, What peace divine I’d claim as mine, Fair, far Hesperides! , 1896.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Haven-Mother

By ways I know not of they come, wind-swept along the miles, From the palm-encircled beaches of the jewelled southern isles, Through stress of gales that shred their sails and split their straining spars, Through nights of calm unbroken and the wonder of the stars: And, sliding to their moorings where the harbor beacons shine, They drop their sullen anchors for a moment, and are mine. Of their questing grown a-weary, for a moment they abide, Standing mutely and majestic, where the ripple of the tide With its lazy lips is lapping in the shadows at their side.

Of the wind and waves beleaguered, and assailed of berg and floe, To the ends of sea undaunted, these, my errant children, go; Seeking out the northern waters, it is theirs a way to win Through the grinding of the ice-pack, threading slowly out and in, Where the castles of the Frost King in their pride and pallor rise, Thrusting tower and buttress upward to the steely Arctic skies: And a deep auroral glory from the white horizon grows, Mounting swift towards the zenith and reflected on the snows, Till each pinnacled escarpment turns to amethyst and rose.

Or, by southward pathways faring, where the stately islands are, They, by beach and breaker gliding, run to safety by the bar; And, their sails serenely furling where the motionless lagoon In its lap as in a cradle holds the duplicated moon, Hear the sound of sailors singing and the plash of rhythmic oars Run to meet the midnight murmurs that are born along the shores. But I fear not these enchantments; where the trumpet-creepers twine, Though the air be filled with music, though the air be sweet as wine, These my children stay not—may not. I am theirs, and they are mine.

Let them go their ways unquestioned, let them come, unquestioned still, I shall wait them, I shall welcome, come they when or whence they will; Am I not the Haven-Mother? ’T is a mother’s part to bide, To be ready, to be tender, when the turning of the tide Brings the rovers homeward, weary of their strivings with the sea, To the sweet surcease that waits them in the port where they would be. Let them roam to north or southward—wheresoe’er their ways are cast, To my bosom backward turning when their journeying is past, They shall gleam within the offing, and be mine again at last! , 1897.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Gettysburg

Though the winds be strong that lash along the steeds of the charging sea, With lunge and urge of assaulting surge yet seeking a further goal, God in His pleasure hath set a measure, the bound of their boast to be, Where, pile upon pile, and mile on mile, are the cliffs of calm control. But the Lord of Hosts who guardeth the coasts yet loveth each sieging swell, And He who is Brother to surge and smother is Brother to cliff as well: He giveth the word if the shore be stirred, He biddeth the sea subside, And this is our trust, that His will is just, however He turn the tide!

As night went gray at the touch of day and the slow dawn mounted higher, On the Federal right the third day’s fight was born in a sheet of fire: Gun upon gun to the front was run, and each in its turn spoke forth From fevered mouth to the waiting South the word of the watching North: And the wraith of Death with withering breath o’er the wide arena played, As across the large swept on the charge of the old Stonewall brigade; But the first great wave on a sudden gave, retreating across the slain— Gave and broke, as the rifles spoke from the long blue line of Kane!

Then silence sank on the double rank deployed on the sullen hill, And, across the plain of the early slain, the hosts of the South were still, Waiting, each, till further speech from the guns should dart and din— Sign to the brave that the final wave of the tide was rolling in. Adown the line like a draught of wine the presence of Hancock came, And eyes grew bright in the steadfast light of his own that blazed to flame; For the Federals knew, where his banner blew—and they saw their leader ride, That a righteous God on that sea of sod had decreed a turn of tide!

So came one, when a signal gun awoke on the Southern side, And Hunt’s brigade with a cannonade to the challenge of Lee replied, Like arrows sent from a bow well bent to the heart of a distant targe, Virginia’s hope rode down the slope, with Pickett leading the charge! Steady and slow, as soldiers go in some serried dress parade, With flags a-dance in their cool advance came the gallant gray brigade, And steady and slow, as if no foe on the frowning heights abode, To the cannon’s breath, to the scythe of Death, Pickett, their leader, rode.

God! what a mile he led them! From the slope they sought to scale, Sullen and hot, the swingeing shot was hurling its awful hail: Where a long ravine ploughed through the green they halted, anew to form, And then, with a cheer, to the ridge’s sheer they swept like a summer storm. Hand to hand at the guns they manned, the Federals fought and fell, Where Armistead his regiment led up the cannister-harrowed swell, He touched a gun—for a breath he won the crest of the Union’s pride— Then over the hill Jehovah’s will decreed the turn of the tide!

Taken in flank each gallant rank of Pickett’s battalions gave, Trampled and tossed, since hope was lost, there was left but life to save; Beaten back on the travelled track, they faltered, and broke, and fled, And, swinging his scythe, Death claimed his tithe in the pale and patient dead! For the arm of the Lord had raised the sword that man may not gainsay, ’Twixt the cause of the Free and the cause of Lee the issue no longer lay; For the word of the Lord had gone abroad that the strife of the right had won, And Freedom’s foe at the call bowed low and answered “Thy will be done!”

Pickett, ah, Pickett, the staunchest heart in the Southern host that day, Hail to the brave in the last great wave of the long and fearful fray, That broke in foam on the trampled loam of that tempest trampled mount— In the glory born of a hope forlorn they passed to their last account! Meade, ah, Meade, there are hearts that bleed for your host that fought and fell, When the final charge broke on the marge of a hillside turned to Hell! Yet this the speech on the crag-girt beach that the sea proclaims for aye, And this the word that the cliffs unstirred through the ages still reply:

Though the winds be strong that lash along the steeds of the charging sea, With lunge and urge of assaulting surge yet seeking a further goal, God in His pleasure hath set a measure, the bound of their boast to be, Where, pile upon pile, and mile on mile, are the cliffs of calm control. But the Lord of Hosts who guardeth the coasts yet loveth each sieging swell, And He who is Brother to surge and smother is Brother to cliff as well: He giveth the word if the shore be stirred, He biddeth the sea subside, And this is our trust, that His will is just, however He turn the tide! , 1898.


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138 smoke of which we placed the buffalo-meat we had brought home, leaving it during the night, that it might be perfectly cured. We had had some for supper, and thought it excellent. The young builalo was beginning to graze, and we gave him a little milk to-night, as well as to the jackal. Fritz had taken the precaution to cover the eyes of his eagle, and tying it fast by the leg to a branch, it rested very tranquilly. We then retired to our mossy beds, to recruit our strength for the labours of another day.

At break of day we rose, made a light breakfast, and I was about to give the signal of departure, when my wife communicated to me the difficulty they had had in cutting down the palm-tree, and the valuable provision that might be obtained from it with a little trouble. I thought she was right, and decided to remain here another day; for it was no triiling undertaking to split up a tree seventy feet long. I consented the more readily, as I thought I might, after removing the useful pith from the trunk, obtain two large spouts or channels to conduct the water from Jackal River to the kitchen garden.

Such tools as we had we carried to the place where the tree lay. We first sawed off the head; then, with the hatchet making an opening at each end, we took wedges and mallets, and the wood being tolerably soft, after four hours’ labour, we succeeded in splitting it completely. VVhen parted, we pressed the pith with our hands, to get the whole into one division of the trunk, and began to make our paste. At one end of the spout we nailed one of the graters, through which we intended to force the paste, to form the round seeds. My little bakers


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Portal talk:Queensland

SLQ digitised publications
Here are the works digitised by the State Library of Queensland. Each record has two editions. e.g. splits the work into pages, however the  'searchable' edition provides a 54Mb PDF. John Vandenberg (chat) 03:09, 31 December 2010 (UTC)

title: Portal talk:Queensland


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Rh set vigorously to work, some pouring water on the pith, while the rest mixed it into paste. When sufficiently worked, I pressed it strongly with my hand against the grater; the farinaceous parts passed easily through the holes, while the ligneous part, consisting of spliuters of wood, &c., was left behind. This we threw into a heap, hoping mushrooms might spring from it. My wife now carefully spread the grains on sailcloth, in the sun, to dry them. I also formed some vermicelli, by giving more consistence to the paste, and forcing it through the holes in little pipes. My wife promised with this, and the Dutch cheese, to make us a dish equal to Naples maccaroui. We were now contented; we could at any time obtain more sago by cutting down a tree, and we were anxious to get home to try our water-pipes. We spent the rest of the day in loading the cart with our utensils and the halves of the tree. We retired to our hut at sunset, and slept in peace.

The next morning the whole caravan began to move at an early hour. The buffalo, harnessed to the cart, by the side of his nurse, the cow, took the place of our lost ass, and began his apprenticeship as a beast of draught. VVe took the same road on our return, that we might carry away the candle-berries and the vessels of India-rubber. The vanguard was composed of Fritz and Jack, who pioneered our way, by cutting down the underwood to make a road for the cart. Our water-pipes, being very long, somewhat impeded our progress; but we happily reached the candleberry trees without accident, and placed our sacks on the cart. We did not find more than a quart


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140 of the caoutchouc gum; but it would he sufiicient for our first experiment, and I carried it off.

In crossing the little wood of guavas, we suddenly heard our dogs, who were before us with Fritz and Jack, uttering the most frightful howlings. I was struck with terror lest they should have encountered a tiger, and rushed forward ready to fire. The dogs were endeavouring to enter a thicket, in the midst of which Fritz declared he had caught a glimpse of an animal larger than the buitalo, with a black, bristly skin. I was just about to discharge my gun into the thicket, when Jack, who had lain down on the ground, to look under the bushes, burst into a loud laugh. "It is another trick of that vexatious animal, our old sow! she is always making fools of us,” cried he. Half merry and half angry, we made an opening into the thicket, and there discovered the lady lying, surrounded by seven little pigs, only a few days old. We were very glad to see our old iriend so attended, and stroked her. She seemed to recognize us, and grunted amicably. We supplied her with some potatoes, sweet acoms, and cassava bread; intending, in return, to eat her young ones, when they were ready for the spit, though my dear wife cried out against the cruelty of the idea. At present we left them with her, but proposed afterwards to take away two, to be brought up at home, and leave the rest to support themselves on acorns in the woods, where they would become game for us. At length we arrived at Falcon’s Nest, which we regarded with all the attachment of home. Our domestic animals crowded round us, and noisily welcomed us. `We tied up the buffalo and jackal,


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Gloria Mundi

 * Gloria Mundi, a poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl
 * Gloria Mundi, a poem by James Russell Lowell

title: Gloria Mundi


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Rh as they were not yet domesticated. Fritz fastened his eagle to a branch by a chain long enough to allow it to move freely, and then imprudently uncovered its eyes; it immediately raised its head, erected its feathers, and struck on all sides with its beak and claws; our fowls took to flight, but the poor parrot fell in his way, and was torn to pieces before we could assist it. Fritz was very angry, and would have executed the murderer; but Ernest begged he would not be so rash, as parrots were more plentiful than eagles, and it was his own fault for uncovering his eyes; the falconers always keeping their young birds hooded six weeks, till they are quite tame. He offered to train it, if Fritz would part with it; but this Fritz indignantly refused. I told them the fable of the dog in the manger, which abashed Fritz; and he then besought his brother to teach him the means of training this noble bird, and promised to present him with his monkey.

Ernest then told him that the Caribs subdue the largest birds by making them inhale tobacco smoke. Fritz laughed at this; but Ernest brought a pipe and some tobacco he had found in the ship, and began to smoke gravely under the branch where the bird was perched. It was soon calm, and on his continuing to smoke it became quite motionless. Fritz then easily replaced the bandage, and thanked his brother for his good service.

The next morning we set out early to our young plantation of fruit-trees, to fix props to support the weaker plants. We loaded the cart with the thick bamboo canes and our tools, and harnessed the cow to it, leaving the buffalo in the stable, as I wished the wound in his nostrils to be perfectly


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142 healed before I put him to any hard work. I left Francis with his mother, to prepare our dinner, begging them not to forget the maccaroni.

We began at the entrance of the avenue to Falcon’s Nest, where all the trees were much bent by the wind. We raised them gently by a crow-bar; I made a hole in the earth, in which one of my sons placed the bamboo props, driving them firmly down with a mullet, and we proceeded to another, while Ernest and Jack tied the trees to them with a long, tough, pliant plant, which I suspected was a species of llana. As we were working, Fritz inquired if these fruit-trees were wild.

"A pretty question!" cried Jack. "Do you think that trees are tamed like eagles or buifaloes? You perhaps could teach them to bow politely, so that we might gather the fruit!"

"You fancy you are a wit," said I, "but you speak like a dunce. We cannot make trees bow at our pleasure; but we can make a tree, which by nature bears sour and uneatable fruit, produce what is sweet and wholesome. This is effected by grafting into a wild tree a small branch, or even a bud, of the sort you wish. I will show you this method practically at some fixture time, for by these means we can procure all sorts of fruit; only we must remember, that we can only graft a tree with one of the same natural family; thus, we could not graft an apple on a cherry-tree, for one belongs to the apple tribe, and the other to the plum tribe."

"Do we know the origin of all these European fruits?" asked the inquiring Ernest.

"All our shell fruits," answered I, "such as the


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Rh nut, the almond, and the chesnut, are natives of the East; the peach, of Persia; the orange and apricot, of Armenia; the cherry, which was unknown in Europe sixty years before Christ, was brought by the proconsul Lucullus from the southern shores of the Euxine; the olives come from Palestine. The first olive-trees were planted on Mount Olympus, and from thence were spread through the rest of Europe; the fig is from Lydia; the plums, your favourite fruit, with the exception of some natural sorts that are natives of our forests, are from Syria, and the town of Damascus has given its name to one sort, the Damascene, or Damson. The pear is a fruit of Greece; the ancients called it the fruit of Peloponnesus; the mulberry is from Asia; and the quince from the island of Crete."

Our work progressed as we talked thus, and we had soon propped all our valuable plants. It was now noon, and we returned to Falcon’s Nest very hungry, and found an excellent dinner prepared, of smoked beef, and the tender bud of the cabbage-palm, the most delicious of vegetables.

After dinner, we began to discuss a plan I had long had in my head; but the execution of it presented many difficulties. It was, to substitute a firm and solid staircase for the ladder of ropes, which was a source of continual fear to my wife. It is true, that we only had to ascend it to go to bed; but had weather might compel us to remain in our apartment; we should then have frequently to ascend and descend, and the ladder was very unsafe. But the immense height of the tree, and the impossubility of procuring beams to sustain a staircase round it, threw me into despair.


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The Fog

 * The Fog, a poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl
 * The Fog, a poem by William Henry Davies

title: The Fog


text: Index:Brisbane from the air.djvu

title: Index:Brisbane from the air.djvu


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FOREWORD.

HE views contained in this booklet are reproduced from the first photographs ever taken of Brisbane from an Aeroplane. The pictures were secured by F. W. Thiel during a 40 minutes flight over the Metropolis of Queensland, made on behalf of the Courier and Queenslander in the Peace Aeroplane, piloted by Flight-Commander F. R. Smith in September, 1919. The ideal weather conditions enabled the photographer to obtain excellent negatives from a height of nearly 2,000 feet. These novel views of Brisbane show the city from quite a new aspect, and the clearness of the pictures makes it easy to pick out familiar landmarks, even though seen from an unfamiliar point of view. Acknowledgments are due to the Peace Loan Committee and also Capt. F. R. Smith for assistance rendered in making the special flight necessary to obtain the photographs.

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144, looking at the monstrous trunk of the tree, I thought, if we cannot succeed outside, could we not contrive to mount within?

"Have you not said there was a swarm of bees in the trunk of the tree?" I inquired of my wife. "Yes," said little Francis, "they stung my face dreadfully the other day, when I was on the ladder. I was pushing a stick into the hole they came out of, to try how deep it was."

"Now, then," cried I, "I see through my difficulties. Let us find out how far the tree is hollow; we can increase the side of the tunnel, and I have already planned the sort of staircase I can construct." I had hardly spoken, when the boys leaped like squirrels, some upon the arched roots, some on the steps of the ladder, and began to strike with sticks and mallets to sound the tree. This rash proceeding had nearly been fatal to Jack, who, having placed himself just before the opening, and striking violently, the whole swarm, alarmed at an attack, which probably shook their palace of wax, issued forth, and revenged themselves amply on all the assailants. Nothing was heard but cries and stamping of feet. My wife hastened to cover the stings with moist earth, which rather relieved them; but it was some hours before they could open their eyes. They begged me to get them the honey from their foes, and I prepared a hive, which I had long thought of—a large gourd, which I placed on a board nailed upon a branch of our tree, and covered with straw to shelter it from the sun and wind. But it was now bedtime, and we deferred our attack on the fortress till next day.


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This photo shows the city proper, as seen from a point above New Farm. The full length of Queen Street stretches along the left margin, with the Custom House in the foreground, and the extreme end of Victoria Bridge in the background. Next to the right comes Adelaide Street, then Ann Street, with the Central Station showing in the centre. Wickham Terrace forks off to the right of the Station, and winds its sinuous way up the hill past the Observatory, leaving Wickham Park and the Roma Street Railway Market Sheds on the left. The white roadway running diagonally across the right corner is Boundary Street, and Leichhardt Street branches off from it in a curve to the left. The first street running across the picture is Wharf Street. It is visible running from Queen Street up to Leichhardt Street. The street running up at the far end of the station is Edward Street. Following this is Albert Street. Then comes Roma Street branching off from Ann Street and running past the Markets. The Brisbane River is also visible in the top left hand corner.

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Another view of the city is presented in this photograph. It was taken from a point about over the South Brisbane coal wharves and River Terrace. Victoria Bridge appears in the foreground to the left, with the Government Offices flanking it on the right, the new Savings Bank building being especially prominent by reason of its height. A little further to the right is Perry Brothers' tall building, at the corner of Albert and Elizabeth Streets, and the flat roof of the Stadium is visible close by. George Street and Albert Street are leading features in this view, and the extensive produce sheds in the neighbourhood of the Roma Street Railway Station bulk largely on the left. The Courier Building rears its massive proportions near the right centre, and near it the narrow frontage of the Kodak buildings rears its six stories. Further back is the Central Station, with the broad expanse of Upper Edward Street to the left, running up on to Wickham Terrace.

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text: The Swiss Family Robinson - 1851/Chapter XXV


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This view was taken from above Spring Hill, and embraces the northern portion of the City, the whole of the New Farm "Pocket," the tongue of Kangaroo Point, and the Brisbane River, from the Garden Reach down to Hawthorne, a distance of about 3 miles. The bend of the River is clearly shown, as it winds round Kangaroo Point and New Farm "Pocket." Norman Creek is also visible at the top right hand corner of the picture. Leichhardt Street runs along the foreground. The white roadway branching off from it is Boundary Street, which runs through the centre to the wharves at Circular Quay. Wharf Street also branches off in this vicinity, and runs down to Queen Street. The wharves are clearly discernable as they stretch from the Custom House round to New Farm. The Custom House is also visible. All Hallow's Convent and St. Ann's School are to be seen at the back of Howard Smith's Whaves. The large clear space in the distance is New Farm Park, with its circular white pathway showing up brilliantly. The Sugar Refinery and the New Farm Wharves lie to the left of this. Beyond are the heights of Galloway's Hill and Hawthorne on the other side of the River.

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South Brisbane is seen in this picture. The "Pocket" occupied by the Domain forms the foreground, and beyond the River is the Dry Dock, with a steamer in it undergoing an overhaul. A steamer is visible travelling up the River towards the Victoria Bridge, and a large steamer is also seen at Birt & Co.'s Wharf. The Railway Wharves fill in the left section of the picture, while the commanding position of St. Laurence's School, "Cumbooquepa," and the South Brisbane Town Hall on the heights of Vulture Street, make them conspicuous objects in the landscape. The South Brisbane Technical College and the Fire Brigade Station also stand out clearly. Vulture Street runs diagonally through the view, and is intersected by Hope Street from the left. Running from the River, in order from the left, are Dock Street, Tribune Street, Sidon Street, and Russell Street. A portion of the Queensland University and the Central Technical College Buildings are visible in the bottom right hand corner.

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 This photograph embraces the residential portion of Fortitude Valley, lying to the north of Brunswick Street, with Stratton and Teneriffe. In the immediate foreground is Ann Street, and a little beyond it, near the centre, is St. Patrick's Church and the adjoining playground. In the distance to the left are the Bulimba Wharves and Sheds, with the Brisbane River running through the corner of the picture. Brunswick Street stretches from the front to the back of the view on the right, with James Street parallel to it a little to the left of the centre. Then comes Wandoo Street and Chester Street running parallel with James Street. The streets running parallel with the picture from front to rear are Ann Street, Windmill Street, John Street, Jane Street, Arthur Street, Harcourt Street, Kent Street, Terrace Street, Heal Street, Annie Street, Brown Street, and Villers Street. Then comes Merthyr Road, which is just visible at the top centre of the picture, running down to the river.

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 This picture has in the foreground the Roma Street Railway Yards, with Victoria Park on the left, and Wickham Park on the right. Roma Street Railway Station is very conspicuous near the centre foreground. The full length of Wickham Terrace is visible winding round and passing the Observatory, which is near the centre of the right hand side of the picture. Gregory Terrace is conspicuous with its winding roadway, starting from the Boys' Grammar School, passing the Girls' Grammar School, and running round to the Gympie Road. Running parallel with it is the Railway Line through Victoria Park to the Wool Stores. The Gympie Road will be seen running out near the top left hand corner. Breakfast Creek is also prominent here with its zig zag formation. The centre of the view is occupied by Spring Hill, and in the distance is Newstead and the Brisbane River, with Breakfast Creek and the nearer slopes of the Hamilton to the left. Albion Park Racecourse and Bulimba Point are also visible. This view includes the General Hospital, the Railway Sheds at Mayne Junction, the Exhibition, and the Bulimba Gas Works.

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 In this picture the main feature is the northern part of Ascot Racecourse, with the stables in the nearer corner. The railway line and Doomben Station are also visible in the front section of the picture. The line crosses the Nudgee Road, and runs past the Stables. The clear space in the top right hand corner is a portion of Doomben, where aerial experiments have been carried out. In the foreground is the suburb of Whinstanes, and the Nudgee Road runs through the centre of the view, and is conspicuous by its straight formation. The stands at Ascot are outside the left margin, part of the lawn being just visible. The first road running off Nudgee Road to the left is Lancaster Road. The first running to the right is Jackson Street, with Lamington Avenue on the other side of the railway line. Running parallel with the Nudgee Road at the front of the picture is Winchester Road, Oxford Street, and Windsor Street, which is in the bottom right hand corner. On the other side of the railway line are Brassey Street and Hopetown Street, with Hampton Street bounding them in the middle distance. Running along the top is Manson Road, and Kitchener Road is seen running across the top left hand corner.

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Atlantis

 * Atlantis, a poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl
 * Atlantis, a poem by Clark Ashton Smith

title: Atlantis


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 This photograph includes the neighbourhood of Albion and Wooloowin, looking towards the Kedron Park Racecourse, which shows near the middle distance. The Magdalene Asylum is the large square patch in the centre. In the foreground in the left hand corner is the Sandgate Road and Albion Railway Station. The Railway Line can be seen running through the picture between Hudson Road and Albion Street to Wooloowin Station. Branching off Albion Street, in the centre of the picture, and running past the Holy Cross School is Chalk Street, which runs up and joins the Gympie Road. Moving off from Chalk Street, near the centre of the picture, and running towards Kedron Park, is the Kedron Park Road, which stands out prominent, and eventually joins on to the Gympie Road. The meandering thoroughfare running past Kedron Park into the distance is the Gympie Road. Branching off from the Gympie Road a little past Kedron Park, and running out to the left, is the Stafford Road. On the near side of Kedron Park, and branching off the Kedron Park Road, is Kent Road, which runs out on the right hand side of the picture towards Eagle Junction.

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 This photograph shows the Photographer (F. W. Thiel) in the front seat of the aeroplane with his camera (which was specially fitted up for the purpose) ready for the flight. In the rear seat is Flight Commander F. R. Smith, M.C., D.F.C. Starting from Lytton the 'plane ascended to a height of nearly 2,000 feet, and made for the city, which was reached in about five minutes. While circling over the city, operations were commenced. To obtain the photographs the Photographer (F. W. Thiel) had to practically stand up in the machine, while at the same time, Captain Smith, with splendid judgment, banked the machine almost on to its side. During the flight eight plates were exposed, and the 'plane was headed back for Lytton, where it arrived 40 minutes after its departure.

 * "When the plates were developed it was found that 100 per
 * cent. success had been achieved—eight excellent negatives
 * being obtained."

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Ebb-Tide

 * Ebb-Tide, a poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl
 * Ebb-Tide, a poem by Sara Teasdale
 * The Ebb-Tide, novella by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne

title: Ebb-Tide


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The Children

 * The Children, a poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl
 * The Children, a poem by Rudyard Kipling
 * The Children, a poem by Edith Wharton

title: The Children


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Derelict

Novels

 * The Derelict (1917), a novella by Phyllis Bottome

Poems

 * "Derelict" (1923, "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest—"), a song by Young Ewing Allison
 * "Derelict" (1900, "In younger days, of idleness grown sick"), a poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl
 * "The Derelict" (1896, "I was the staunchest of our fleet"), a poem by Rudyard Kipling

Short stories

 * "A Derelict" (1907), a short story by Richard Harding Davis
 * "The Derelict" (1912), a short story by William Hope Hodgson
 * "The Derelict" (1905), a short story by Clara Morris

title: Derelict


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Atlantis

The light of suns unseen, through depths of sea descending, Within her street awakes the ghost of noon To bide its little hour and die unheeded, blending Into her night that knows nor stars nor moon. The hurrying feet of storms that trample o’er the surges Arouse no echo in these silent deeps; No thunder thrills her peace, no sword of lightning scourges The dim, dead calm where lost Atlantis sleeps.

Long leagues above her courts the stately days advancing Kindle new dawns and see new sunsets dim; And, white and weary-eyed, the old stars, backward glancing, Reluctant pause upon the ocean’s rim. But she, of dawns and dusks forgotten and forgetful, Broods in her depths with slumber-weighted eyes; For all her splendid past unanxious, unregretful, She waits the call that bids her wake and rise.

No mortal voice she hears. The strong young ships, full-freighted, With hopes of men, with women’s sighs and tears, Above her blue-black walls and portals golden-gated Sweep on unnoted through the speeding years— Until at last they come, as still in silence resting She keeps her vigil underneath the waves, By tempests tossed and torn, and weary of their questing, Slow sliding downward past her to their graves.

So side by side they lie in ever gaining number, The sunken ships, by fate or fortune led To this, their final port, resistless sent to slumber Until the sea shall render up her dead— Shall render up her dead to all their olden glories, Shall render up what now so well she keeps, The buried lives and loves, the strange, unfinished stories Of these dim depths where lost Atlantis sleeps!

, 1899.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/The Easter Lily

A little child, as winter turned to spring, Tended a lily-plant with patient care, Thinking, when she should see it blossoming, To set it on the chancel-step; that there, When Easter dawned on Lent, the spotless thing Might on the feast-day be her offering, Lifting its own white face to One more fair.

But, as the plant grew upward day by day, Raising itself from earth towards the sky, So seemed the child from earth to draw away, The while she feared to see the lily die; Unthinking that, ere broke the Easter ray, She might her own white soul before Him lay For Whom she sought the flower to sanctify.

Time passed. The lily bloomed not; and the night Before the feast had come. And so the child Sent to the church the cherished plant, despite ’T was but an unblown bud; and—reconciled That on the altar-step, midst flowers white, Her poor green stalk watched out the silent flight Of hours until the morn—contented smiled.

•       •        •        •        •        •        •        •

Fair broke the dawn upon the altar’s hem Of lilies, breathing Easter greeting sweet; But, with the night that so perfected them, The child’s own spirit fled, the Light to meet Beyond the heaven’s roseate diadem; And, with the morning, bloomed upon the stem The fair, white soul her own had longed to greet! , 1893.


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United States Code/Title 42/Chapter 126

Title 42 — The Public Health and Welfare — Equal Opportunity for Individuals With Disabilities

title: United States Code/Title 42/Chapter 126


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/“The Winds and the Sea Obey Him”

Who once hath heard the sea above her graves Sing to the stars her requiem, and on whom Her spell is laid of shoreward-sliding waves, Alternate gleam and gloom, In reverent mood and silent, standing where Her hundred throats their diapason raise, Hath found the very perfectness of prayer And plenitude of praise. Thenceforward is his hope a thing apart From man’s perplexing dogmas, good or ill; Deep in the sacred silence of his heart His faith abideth, still:— A faith that fails not, steadfast, humble, kind, Amid a vexing multitude of creeds That bend and break with every passing wind, Like tempest-trampled reeds.

The tide of man’s belief may ebb or flow; Its swift mutations, many though they be, He heedeth not who once hath come to know The anthem of the sea. From sages and their blindly fashioned lore He turns, to watch with reverential eyes The seas men fear serve ceaselessly before The God whom men despise! Through length of days and year succeeding year Earth’s strongest power serves Heaven’s still stronger one, And all the winds, in holy-hearted fear, To do His bidding run. Ah, likewise serving, restless hearts, be still, And learn, like little children, of the way— Secure in Him, Whose strong enduring will The winds and sea obey! , 1897.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Derelict

In younger days, of idleness grown sick, On this low bank I saw, as in a dream, The fingers of the leaning willows prick Long dimples in the slow, reluctant stream. Watching the pilgrim leaves forsake the stem, Impatient of the dull familiar cove, And idle down the tide, I longed like them, Untrammelled, homeless, free of heart, to rove.

I mind me that of these I noted one That at the bend a wayward eddy turned And drifted back, its journey just begun, The secret of the wider stream unlearned. It seemed a poor reward for one so bold, Checked at the start, and beaten back, to find So stale a death. I did not know, of old, What seemed so hard could be in truth so kind!

I little thought that on a larger stream I, too, one day should drift away at will Toward the distant reaches of my dream From the safe shelter where I lived so still. I little thought that I should one day grow Weary of endless pictures filing past, Of idle life and idler love, and so       Come gladly to some little cove at last.

Kind eddy that has caught me from the tide, Of drifting weary, tempest-torn and tost, To find, from the swift current turned aside, The simpler things I thought that I had lost! What have they brought me, all the wasted years, The river’s turns that opened with a smile And ended in the bitterness of tears? Kind God! How little were they worth the while!

Yet, here and there, around the sudden bends, The opening reaches held some sweet surprise:— My arm has linked and lingered in a friend’s, My eyes have seen love swim in lovely eyes! I have kissed pleasure—walked alone with pain; And, if to life I was apprentice made, My years of toil have brought the toiler’s gain— By life equipped, of life I know the trade!

I have made foes, and so can keep a friend; Learned of a friend how gently foes may score; Played fast and loose with love, and in the end Lost it, and, losing, learned to love the more! Seeking for gifts, I found ’t is joy to give, Searching for truth, was taught to know a lie; Pursuing death, I learned ’t is good to live, In quest of life, I learned it safe to die!

What were it better that the past should be       Than like that leaf, turned helplessly aside, That drifted back beneath its mother-tree, And at its root to purer purpose died? Another year yet other leaves there sprung, Fed by the mould of which it formed a part, That subtly heard, mayhap, that voiceless tongue And laid its lesson silently to heart.

From soil of pride the plant of meekness grows, From labor’s mine comes gold of sweet surcease; By sorrow’s showers is fed contentment’s rose, And passion’s vultures build the nest of peace: So from past weakness future strength I gain, As poise of knowledge to my doubt succeeds, And faith’s fresh flower, that long I sought in vain, Blooms on the rubbish of my mouldered creeds.

Now at the end I see that it was well To drain the cup down to the bitter lees; To foretaste heaven—thread the paths of hell, Else empty words and meaningless were these: Else might I stand, as once I stood outside My fast-locked heart, its best and worst unknown, Till life’s firm hand flung the barred portals wide And led me in, a stranger, to my own! , 1900.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/The Débutante

To-day dawned not upon the earth as other days have done: A throng of little virgin clouds stood waiting for the sun, Till the herald-winds aligned them, and they blushed, and stood aside, As the marshals of the morning flung the eastern portals wide. So Nature lit her playhouse for the play that May begins, And the twigs of honeysuckle sawed like little violins: In the dawn there dwelt a whisper of a presence that was new, For the slender Spring was at the wing, and waiting for her cue!

As yet I could not see her, and the stage was wide and bare; As yet the Winter's chorus echoed faintly on the air With a dying wail of tempest, and of dry and tortured trees, But a promise of new music lent enchantment to the breeze. In the scene's secluded corners lay the snow-drifts, still secure; But the murmur of their melting sang another overture Than the brooks of brown November, and I listened, and I knew That blue-eyed Spring was at the wing, and waiting for her cue!

The world was all attention, and the hemlocks stood, a-row, Ushers, never changing costume through the Seasons’ wonder-show, While the day, below the hillside, tried her colors, one by one, On the clouds experimenting, till the coming of the sun. In the vines about my window, where the sparrows all convene, They were practising the chorus that should usher in the Queen, And the sod-imprisoned flowers craved the word to shoulder through: Green-girdled Spring was at the wing, and waiting for her cue!

She shall enter to the clarion of the crystal-ringing brooks, She shall tread on frail arbutus in the moist and mossy nooks; She shall touch the bleak drop-curtain of the Winter with her wand Till it lifts, and shows the wonder of the apple blooms beyond! Yet with all her golden sunlight, and her twilights of perfume, Yet with all the mystic splendor of her nights of starlit gloom, She shall bring no sweeter moment than this one in which I knew That laughing Spring was at the wing, and waiting for her cue! , 1902.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Shells

Where the long waves put cool, caressing hands Upon the fevered temples of the shore, And with their eager lips are telling o’er Their strange, unspoken secrets to the sands, Along the shining rim of cape and cove The shells in fair, unplanned mosaic lie; And there the children, keen of heart and eye, Gather their harvest in of treasure-trove. Yet this is one of ocean’s mysteries— That, while the humbler shells the breakers brave, The fairest are most fragile, and the wave, Ruthless, has crushed and mutilated these!

Ah, sea of life, we, too, like children, stand Through youth and age, expectant, at thy rim, To pray for golden argosies from Him Who holds thee in the hollow of His hand. Capricious tides delude us, veer and turn, And flash our dreams to view, again to hide; A moment on the breaker’s crest they ride, The while we watch, their destiny to learn. Poor, fragile dreams! Our humbler hopes befall; But crushed and shattered, tempest-tossed and torn, These come to shore, the dreams of youthful morn— Most fair, most frail, and best beloved of all! , 1897.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/At Twilight

Was it so long? It seems so brief a while Since this still hour between the day and dark Was ligntened by a little fellow’s smile; Since we were wont to mark The sunset’s crimson dim to gold, to gray, Content to know that, though he loved to roam Care-free among the comrades of his play, Twilight would lead him home.

A year ago! The well-remembered hail Of happy-hearted children on the green We hear to-night, and see the sunset pale, The distant hills between: But when the busy feet shall homeward turn, When little wearied heads shall seek for rest, Where shall you find the weight for which you yearn, Ah, tender mother-breast?

Dear lips, that in the twilight hushed and dim Lulled him with murmured fantasies of song; Dear slender arms, that safely sheltered him, The empty years are long! The night’s caressing wind moves babbling on, And all the whispered gossip of the firs Is busy with his name who now is gone— My little lad and hers!

But if we so, with eager eyes and glad, Looked forward to his coming in the gloom; If so our hearts leaped out to meet the lad Whose smile lit all the room,— Shall there not be a Presence waiting thus To still the bitter craving of the quest? Shall there not be a welcome, too, for us       When we go home to rest?

Yes, God be thanked for this: the ashen-gowned Sweet presence of the twilight, and, afar, The strong, enduring hills, in beauty crowned With one white, steadfast star! A year ago? What, love, to us are years? The selfsame twilight, cool, and calm, and dim, That led him home to us, despite our fears, Shall lead us home to him! , 1898.


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 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, BY GOOLD BROWN, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts

TROW'S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING Co., 205-213 East 12th ST NEW YORK


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Paris

I knew when first I looked into her eyes, And she in mine, that what has been must be, And so let others say she told them lies: She told no lie to me! She spoke me fair, of lees as well as wine, Then, with that subtlest charm of all her charms, Half-dropped her languid lids, and at the sign I ran into her arms!

Now it is she who flings my window wide At dawn, and lets the perfumed morning in, And she who walks so softly at my side, Through noonday’s dust and din. But, most of all, ’t is she, where blue night falls, Whose firm, imperious fingers tap the pane, And she whose velvet voice it is that calls, Nor calls her own in vain!

It is as if the siren understood How that she is so strong at this still hour, That I could not repulse her if I would, Nor would, had I the power: As if she knew that, should I try to check The strength of that enrapt, responsive thrill, Let her but slide her arm about my neck, And I obey her will!

So, when she speaks, I answer; when she woos, Her voice, like wine, the slow pulse goads and spurs: I go to meet her through the dropping dews, And lean my lips to hers. All the long hours run laughing into one— The strange, sweet moment when the evening falls— And, like a mother summoning her son, Resistless Paris calls! , 1901.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Ebb-Tide

A sodden reach of wide and wind-swept lea, A sky of shattered steel that palls the sight, And one long shaft of sun that seems to write Vast letters slowly on a slate of sea; The dreary wail of gulls that skim the crest Of sullen breakers sliding in to land, A world grown empty, full of vague unrest, And shadow-shapes that stride across the sand!

The gray beach widens. Foot by foot appear Strange forms of wreckage creeping from the waves, Like ghosts that steal in silence from their graves To watch beside the death-bed of the year; Poor shattered shapes of ships that once stood out Full-freighted to the far horizon’s sweep To music of the cheery sailor-shout Of men who sought the wonders of the deep!

Poor shattered ships! Their gallant cruising o’er, Their cargoes coral-crusted, leagues below, They rise, unnamed, unnumbered, from the slow Recession of the ebb along the shore. The fickle tide, that bore them bravely then, Betrays their shame and nakedness to be       Mute witness to the littleness of men Who battle with the sovereignty of sea.

For me, as well, alone upon the dune, There sinks a tide that strips the beaches bare, And leaves but grim, unsightly wreckage where The brooding skies make mockery of noon. Ah, dear, that hopes, like tides, should ebb away, Unmasking on the naked shore of love Flotsam and jetsam of a happier day, Dreams wrecked and all the emptiness thereof! , 1899.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/June

Lightsome, laughter-loving June, Days that swoon In beds of flowers; Twilights dipped in rose perfume, Nights of gloom Washed clear by showers. Suns that softly sink to rest In the west, All purple barred; And a faint night-wind that sighs Under skies Still, silver-starred. Languorous breaths of meadow land Overspanned By clouds like snow; And a shouting from the brooks, Where in nooks Late violets grow. June, ah, June, to lie and dream By the stream, And in the maze Of thy spells never to heed— How they speed, Thy witching days; Watching where the shadows pass. And the grass All rustling bends, While the bees fly east and west, On a quest That never ends. Thus to shun the whirl of life, Freed from strife And freed from care— Hear, as when a lad I heard How the bird Sings, high in air. June, to hear beneath the skies Lullabies That night airs blow; Ah, to find upon thy breast That pure rest I used to know! , 1895.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/The Children

A moment since, I paced almost alone This wonderful wide way, of all her streets The one wherein the pulse of Paris beats Most gaily. Like some sweep of beachway, blown Empty by west-born winds, the tapering line Of path and drive swelled up the rising ground Toward the Arch, deserted, and I found The most majestic mile in Europe mine!

Was it some word I did not comprehend, Some sign too subtle for my grosser sense, That in an instant brought, I know not whence, This throng that fills the path from end to end? Or was it that the wizard April sun Bent and tapped lightly at the myriad doors Wherefrom this tide of laughter daily pours? I know but this:—a miracle was done!

The children! All the world’s a garden grown, Thrilled with a rush of inter-rippling words Than all the liquid babble of the birds Supremely sweeter; and my steps are strown With faces made of roses, and my hand Kept busy with the venturesome who stray Out of their course, and pause upon the way To bend above some treasure in the sand.

An instant gone, it was a little face Framed in white satin, and two violets That looked me through, and fathomed the regrets Of my whole lifetime in a second’s space! And now see where he stands, that elder one, Poised straight and slender, with the languid South Snared in his eyes and in his proud young mouth:— Ah, God, ah, God, why hast Thou hid the sun?

I thought them long since dead, these dreams, and yet Behold, they stand before me in the way, Amid the throng of little ones at play, Gowned in their ashen robes of vain regret! Ah, first love of my young, believing heart, Haven of my hopes, white light across my fears, How strange it is to think the empty years Might of this heaven have granted us a part!

How slow upon the air the music dies! How blind am I, how loath to understand! The wraiths of dreams denied brush by me, and I find my unborn bairns in strangers’ eyes! Exiled, I watch them, romping as they run, Heartsick for this that now can never be:— One that should at my coming run to me! Ah, God, ah, God, why hast Thou hid the sun?


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Narcissus

Since the great, glad greeting of dawn from the eastern hills Triumphant ran with a shout to the woods below, With the song in his ears of the clearly clamoring rills He has lain, like a man of snow, Slender and straight as the joyous immortals are made, Born of woman, but born with the grace of a god. Unheeded airs, caressingly cool, have played With his hair, and the nymphs have trod Close to his side, and have kissed him, waiting to flee— But Narcissus, what recketh he?

In the pool where the lithe fish flashes and slips From his covert to snap at the careless, fluttering flies, Narcissus has seen the curve of his drooping lips, And, like mirrored miniature heavens, his shining eyes. And a flush like a dew-dipped rose has dyed the pool, He has laid his cheek to the ripples cool; Brow touches brow, lips lips, and his eyes of violet roam Down through the crystal depths. In the darkening dome The stars shine forth from their faint, far ways, Trimming their lamps; and, from the purple haze, The moon, cloud-veiled, her circle just complete, Wan as a travail-spent mother, plants her feet On the carpeted hills, and fearful of change Seeks her reflected face in the sea’s southward range— But Narcissus, what recketh he?

Narcissus, Narcissus, where is thy boyish bloom, Thy long, slim form that lay beside the pool, And the lips cold smiling to their smiling image cool? Narcissus!

Only a strange, indefinite perfume, And a dim white spot in the night when soft airs blow; A flower, bending, bending low Its petals and its yellow heart to where the waters flow; Its scent the winds have borne Through the pearl-gray east to the arms of morn, To faint and to die in the wakening light— But of time’s swift flight, the dawn, and the noon, and the night, The sun’s gold glory, the moon’s white mystery, Narcissus, what recketh he? , 1896.


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Page:History of the Anti corn law league.pdf/5

 OF THE

BY

ONE OF ITS EXECUTIVE COUNCIL,

AUTHOR OF

"HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MANCHESTER;" "A TOUR IN THE UNITED STATES," &c.

VOL. 1

LONDON.

W. & F. G. CASH, BISHOPSGATE STREET.

1853.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Pompeii

The giant slept, and pigmies at his feet, Like children moulding monuments of snow, Piled stone on stone, mapped market-place and street, And saw their temples column-girdled grow: And, slowly as the gradual glaciers grope Their way resistless, so Pompeii crept, Year by long year, across the shelving slope Toward the sea:—and still the giant slept.

Belted with gardens, where the shivered glass Of falling fountains broke the pools’ repose, As they had been asleep upon the grass, A myriad villas stretched themselves and rose: And down her streets, grown long and longer still, Grooving the new-laid stones, the chariots swept, And of a sudden burst upon the hill Vast amphitheatres. Still the giant slept.

With liquid comment of the wooing doves, With wanton flowers, sun-conjured from the loam, Grew the white city of illicit loves, Hostess of all the infamy of Rome! A marble harlot, scornful, pale, and proud, Her Circean court on ruin’s brink she kept, Lulled by the adoration of the crowd To lethal stupor. Still the giant slept.

Incense-encircled, pacing day by day Through temple-courts reëchoant with song, Sin-stunned and impercipient, on her way She dragged her languid loveliness along. With lips whereon a dear damnation hung, With dark, dream-clouded eyes that never wept, Flawlessly fair, the faulty fair among, She kissed and cursed:—and still the giant slept.

Here, for a mute reminder of her shame, Her ruins gape out baldly from their tomb; A city naked, shorn of all but name, Blinking and blind from all her years of gloom: A beldam who was beauty, crying alms With leprous lips that mouthe their prayers in vain; Her deaf destroyer to her outstretched palms Respondeth not. The giant sleeps again! , 1900.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/On the Prow

Strange, silent East! Across the solemn calm The slender ship outward and onward strives, Bearing to odorous shores of date and palm The burden of a hundred little lives.

On a like course drift I toward the verge Beyond which lies what now I may not know; Yet my heart whispers these gray wastes of surge Stretch whither it is good for me to go.

Youth, like the speeding sun, left far behind— Unanswered questions mutely sent before— Oh, great, dim East, what welcome shall I find When thy wide arms unveil the distant shore?

The prow knows not the harbor that it nears, Nor I if thou shalt bring the seeker rest:— Yet the strong hand the fragile ship that steers Will guide her to the haven that is best! , 1896.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/A Fragment

When she is forward, querulous, or wild, Thou knowest, Abba, how in each offence I stint not patience lest I wrong the child, Mistaking for revolt defect of sense— For wilfulness mere sprightliness of mind; Thou knowest how often, seeing, I am blind.

•       •        •        •        •        •        •        •

And how, when twice, for something grievous done, I could but smite, and though I lightly smote, I felt my heart rise strangling in my throat; And when she wept I kissed the poor red hands. All these things, Father, a father understands; And am I not Thy son?

•       •        •        •        •        •        •        •

Thou’st seen how closely, Abba, when at rest My child’s head nestles to my breast; And how my arm her little form enfolds, Lest in the darkness she should feel alone; And how she holds My hands, my hands, my two hands in her own!

•       •        •        •        •        •        •        •

A little easeful sighing And restful turning round, And I, too, on Thy love relying, Shall slumber sound. , 1893.


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The Garden of Years and Other Poems/The Spirit of Mid-Ocean

The hesitant sun stands still, with the arch of a day complete, And fingers the yielding latch on the door of his sequent dawn, And the slender poplars shiver and gather about their feet Their long, limp skirts of shadow that lay on the eastward lawn. Then the night, the blue-black night, breathes on the mirror of heaven, Blurs to the ghost of gray the reflected blue of the sea, And the soul of her stirs on the calm, a sudden impalpable leaven, Troubling inanimate twilight with hints of a storm to be. White on the gathering dusk, a gull swings in to the west, Touching the ominous ocean with the tips of tentative wings, And the bell of a distant buoy, a dot on a sluggish crest, Bays in reverberant bass monition of threatening things!

Then, like a wraith that stands in the presence of them that sleep, Pacing the pinguid sea as a ghost on a slated floor, Uncloaking her shining shoulders from the robe of the jealous deep, The Spirit of Grave Mid-Ocean steps silently in to shore. And her strong hands hold the keys to the depths that none may plumb, And the bond of God with His sea her ears alone have heard; But her stern lips guard the secret, loyal, unfaltering, dumb, Till the sums on which we labor be solved by a single word! Calm with the infinite calm of the North’s immutable star, Crowned with serene omniscience, O Spirit of Deep Mid-Sea, If thus majestic and mute God’s stately seneschals are, What, in His own high heaven, shall your Maker and Master be?

Am I then the last of the men that this day departed saw, Sole survivor of all whom it roused to strive and stir, That I stand alone in the night, and, beaten to bay by awe, Confront in the sudden stillness the eloquent eyes of Her? Wake! my unconscious comrades, my brothers in shame and sin, Vexed with your ominous dreaming, tortured by doubt and fear! See on the wings of midnight the presence of peace come in, With the calm, disburdening message that never a noon may hear. Stand face-front to the surges, deaf to your preachers’ lore, Claim no creed of their making, for, on the awestruck sea, The Spirit of Strong Mid-Ocean steps silently in to shore:— Hush! If this be the servant, what must the Master be? , 1901.


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Translation:The Joys

Fluttering to the spring The changing dragonfly Pleased me long ago; Soon dark and soon bright, Like the chameleon, Soon red, soon blue, soon blue, soon green; O that I could be near to really see its colors! It buzzes and hovers, resting never! But hush, it sits in the meadows. There I have it! There I have it! And now I look at it closely And see a sad dark blue - So goes it you, dissectors of your joys!

Die Freuden

title: Translation:The Joys


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 OF BUNGAY, IN SUFFOLK, A ZEALOUS PROMOTER, FROM EARLY MANHOOD, OF CIVIL, RELIGIOUS, AND COMMERCIAL LIBERTY, AND, WITH THE ABLE ASSISTANCE OF JOSEPH HUME AND A FEW OTHER COADJUTORS, THE SUCCESSFUL ABATER OF THE MONOPOLY WHICH TRIPLED OR QUADRUPLED THE PRICE OF THE , THIS HISTORY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF ANOTHER UNRIGHTEOUS MONOPOLY, IS INSCRIBED, AS A TESTIMONY OF SINCERE RESPECT FOR HIS UNDEVIATING ADHERENCE TO PRINCIPLE, AND AS A MEMORIAL OF FORTY YEARS' UNINTERRUPTED FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN HIM AND THE AUTHOR.


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PETER FLEW IN

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