The Many Natures of Man ...

 

 

 

AFTERNOON ON A HILL

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950)

 

I will be the gladdest thing

Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

And not pick one.

 

I will look at cliffs and clouds

With quiet eyes,

Watch the wind bow down the grass,

And the grass rise.

 

And when lights begin to show

Up from the town,

I will mark which must be mine,

And then start down!

 

   

THE ARMFUL

Robert Frost

 

 For every parcel I stoop down to seize

 I lose some other off my arms and knees,

 And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns,

 Extremes too hard to comprehend at. once

 Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.

 With all I have to hold with hand and mind

 And heart, if need be, I will do my best.

 To keep their building balanced at my breast.

 I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;

 Then sit down in the middle of them all.

 I had to drop the armful in the road

 And try to stack them in a better load.

 

   

AS I WALKED OUT ONE EVENING

W. H. Auden

 

     As I walked out one evening,

        Walking down Bristol Street,

     The crowds upon the pavement

        Were fields of harvest wheat.

 

     And down by the brimming river

        I heard a lover sing

     Under an arch of the railway:

        'Love has no ending.

 

     'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you

        Till China and Africa meet,

     And the river jumps over the mountain

        And the salmon sing in the street,

 

     'I'll love you till the ocean

        Is folded and hung up to dry

     And the seven stars go squawking

        Like geese about the sky.

 

     'The years shall run like rabbits,

        For in my arms I hold

     The Flower of the Ages,

        And the first love of the world.'

 

     But all the clocks in the city

        Began to whirr and chime:

     'O let not Time deceive you,

        You cannot conquer Time.

 

     'In the burrows of the Nightmare

        Where Justice naked is,

     Time watches from the shadow

        And coughs when you would kiss.

 

     'In headaches and in worry

        Vaguely life leaks away,

     And Time will have his fancy

        To-morrow or to-day.

 

     'Into many a green valley

        Drifts the appalling snow;

     Time breaks the threaded dances

        And the diver's brilliant bow.

 

     'O plunge your hands in water,

        Plunge them in up to the wrist;

     Stare, stare in the basin

        And wonder what you've missed.

 

     'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,

        The desert sighs in the bed,

     And the crack in the tea-cup opens

        A lane to the land of the dead.

 

     'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes

        And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,

     And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,

        And Jill goes down on her back.

 

     'O look, look in the mirror?

        O look in your distress:

     Life remains a blessing

        Although you cannot bless.

 

     'O stand, stand at the window

        As the tears scald and start;

     You shall love your crooked neighbour

        With your crooked heart.'

 

     It was late, late in the evening,

        The lovers they were gone;

     The clocks had ceased their chiming,

        And the deep river ran on.

 

   

AT CHEYENNE

Eugene Field (1850-1895)

 

Young Lochinvar came in from the West,

With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest;

 

The width of his hat-brim could nowhere be beat,

 

His No. 10 brogans were chuck full of feet,

His girdle was horrent with pistols and things,

And he flourished a handful of aces on kings.

 

The fair Mariana sate watching a star,

When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar!

 

Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow,

And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!"

Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin,

And modestly asked if he mightn't step in.

 

With presence of mind that was marvellous quite,

The fair Mariana replied that he might;

So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar,

Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar.

Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame,

He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same.

 

   

THE CAPTIVE OF THE WHITE CITY

Ina Coolbrith  (1841-1928)

 

Flower of the foam of the waves

   Of the beautiful inland sea,--

White as the foam that laves

   The ships of the Sea-Kings past,--

Marvel of human hands,

   Wonderful mystical, vast,

The great White City stands;

   And the banners of all the lands

Are free on the western breeze,

   Free as the West is free.

And the throngs go up and down

   In the streets of the wonderful town

In brotherly love and grace,--

Children of every zone

The light of the sun has known:

And there in the Midway Place,

In the House of the Unhewn Trees,

There in the surging crowd,

Silent, and stern, and proud,

Sits Rain-in-the-Face!

 

Why is the captive here?

Is the hour of the Lord so near

When slayer and slain shall meet

In the place of the Judgment seat

For the word of the last decree?

Ah, what is that word to be?

For the beautiful City stands

On the Red Man's wrested lands,

The home of a fated race;

And a ghostly shadow falls

Over the trophied walls

Of the House of the Unhewn Tree,

In the pleasant Midway Place.

There is blood on the broken door,

There is blood on the broken floor,

Blood on your bronzed hands,

O Rain-in-the-Face!

 

Shut from the sunlit air,

   Like a sun-god overthrown,

The soldier, Custer lies.

   Dust is the sun-kissed hair,

Dust are the dauntless eyes,

   Dust is a name alone;--

While the wife holds watch with grief

   For the never-returning chief.

What if she walked to-day

   In the City's pleasant way,

The beautiful Midway Place,

   And there to her sudden gaze,

Dimmed with her widow's tears,

   After the terrible years,

Stood Rain-in-the-Face!

 

Quench with a drop of dew

   From the morning's cloudless blue

The prairies' burning plains--

   The seas of the seething flame;

Turn from its awful path

   The tempest, in its wrath;

Lure from his jungle-lair

   The tiger, crouching there

For the leap on his sighted prey:

   Then seek as well as tame

The hate in the Red Man's veins,

   His tiger-thirst to cool,

In the hour of the evil day

   When his foe before him stands!

From the wrongs of the White Man's rule

   Blood only may wash the trace.

Alas, for the death-heaped plain!

   Alas for your blood-stained hands,

O Rain-in-the-Face!

 

And the throngs go up and down,

   In the streets of the wonderful town;

And the jests of the merry tongue,

   And the dance, and the glad songs sung,

Ring through the sunlit space.

   And there, in the wild free breeze,

In the House of the Unhewn Trees,

   In the beautiful Midway Place,

The captive sits apart,

   Silent, and makes no sign.

But what is in your heart,

   O man of a dying race?

What tale on your lips for mine,

   O Rain-in-the-Face.

 

   

CASEY AT THE BAT

Ernest Laurence Thayer (1863-1940)

 

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

 

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--

We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

 

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

 

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

 

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

 

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

 

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

 

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--

"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

 

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;

And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

 

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

 

"Fraud" cried the maddened thousands and echo answered "Fraud!"

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

 

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

 

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville--great Casey has struck out.

 

 

 

THE FACTORY GIRL

John Arthur Phillips (1842-1907)

 

She wasn't the least bit pretty,

   And only the least bit gay;

And she walked with a firm elastic tread,

   In a business-like kind of way.

Her dress was of coarse, brown woollen,

   Plainly but neatly made,

Trimmed with some common ribbon

   Or cheaper kind of braid;

And a hat with a broken feather,

   And shawl of a modest plaid.

 

Her face seemed worn and weary,

   And traced with lines of care,

As her nut-brown tresses blew aside

   In the keen December air;

Yet she was not old, scarce twenty,

   And her form was full and sleek,

But her heavy eye, and tired step,

   Seemed of wearisome toil to speak;

She worked as a common factory girl

   For two dollars and a half a week.

 

Ten hours a day of labor

   In a close, ill-lighted room;

Machinery's buzz for music,

   Waste gas for sweet perfume;

Hot stifling vapors in summer,

   Chill draughts on a winter's day,

No pause for rest or pleasure

   On pain of being sent away;

So ran her civilized serfdom -

   Four cents an hour the pay.

 

"A fair day's work," say the masters,

   And "a fair day's pay," say the men;

There's a strike -- a rise in wages,

   What effect to the poor girl then?

A harder struggle than ever

   The honest path to keep;

And so sink a little lower,

   Some humbler home to seek;

For living is dearer -- her wages,

   Two dollars and a half a week.

 

A man gets thrice the money,

   But then "a man's a man, "

And a woman surely can't expect

   "To earn as much as he can."

Of his hire the laborer's worthy,

   Be that laborer who it may;

If a woman can do a man's work

   She should have a man's full pay,

Not to be left to starve -- or sin -

   On forty cents a day.

 

Two dollars and a half to live on,

Or starve on, if you will;

Two dollars and a half to dress on,

And a hungry mouth to fill;

Two dollars and a half to lodge on

In some wretched hole or den,

Where crowds are huddled together,

Girls, and women, and men;

If she sins to escape her bondage

Is there room for wonder then.

 

   

THE FALL OF ROME

W. H. Auden

 

The piers are pummelled by the waves;

In a lonely field the rain

Lashes an abandoned train;

Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

 

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;

Agents of the Fisc pursue

Absconding tax-defaulters through

The sewers of provincial towns.

 

Private rites of magic send

The temple prostitutes to sleep;

All the literati keep

An imaginary friend.

 

Cerebrotonic Cato may

Extol the Ancient Disciplines,

But the muscle-bound Marines

Mutiny for food and pay.

 

Caesar's double-bed is warm

As an unimportant clerk

Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK

On a pink official form.

 

Unendowed with wealth or pity,

Little birds with scarlet legs,

Sitting on their speckled eggs,

Eye each flu-infected city.

 

Altogether elsewhere, vast

Herds of reindeer move across

Miles and miles of golden moss,

Silently and very fast.

 

   

FEMALE FASHIONS FOR 1799

Mary Robinson

 

A form, as any taper, fine

   A head like half-pint bason;

Where golden cords and bands entwine,

As rich as fleece of Jason.

 

A pair of shoulders strong and wide,

   Like country clown enlisting;

Bare arms long dangling by the side,

   And shoes of ragged listing!

 

Cravats like towels, thick and broad,

   Long tippets made of bear skin

Muffs that a Russian might applaud,

   And rouge to spoil a fair skin.

 

Long petticoates to hide the feet,

Silk hose with clocks of scarlet;

A load of perfume, sick’ning sweet,

Bought of Parisian varlet.

 

A bush of hair, the brow to shade,

Sometimes the eyes to cover;

A necklace that might be display’d

By Otaheitean lover!

 

A bowl of straw to deck the head,

Like porringer unmeaning;

A bunch of poppies flaming red,

With motly ribands streaming.

 

Bare ears on either side the head,

Like wood wild savage satyr;

Tinted with deep vermilion red,

To shame the blush of nature.

 

Red elbows, gauzy gloves that add

An ice cov’ring merely;

A wadded coat, the shape to pad,

Like Dutch-women – or nearly.

 

Such is caprice! But, lovely kind!

Oh! Let each mental feature

Proclaim the labour of the mind,

And leave your charms to NATURE.

 

   

THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

Rudyard Kipling

 

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,

He shouts to scare the monster who will often turn aside.

But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail,

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

When Nag, the wayside cobra, hears the careless foot of man,

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can,

But his mate makes no such motion 

where she camps beside the trail -

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,

They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws -

'Twas the women, not the warriors, 

turned those stark enthusiasts pale -

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,

For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;

But when hunter meets with husband, 

each confirms the others tale -

The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

Man, a bear in most relations, worm and savage otherwise,

Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise;

Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact

To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

 

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,

To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.

Mirth obscene diverts his anger; Doubt and Pity oft perplex

Him in dealing with an issue - to the scandal of the Sex!

 

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame

Proves her launched for one sole issue, 

armed and engined for the same,

And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,

The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

 

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast

May not deal in doubt or pity - must not swerve for fact or jest.

These be purely male diversions - not in these her honor dwells -

She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else!

 

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great

As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate;

And when Babe and Man are lacking 

and she strides unclaimed to claim

Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

 

She is wedded to convictions - in default of grosser ties;

Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him, who denies!

He will meet no cool discussion, but the instant, white-hot wild

Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

 

Unprovoked and awful charges - even so the she-bear fights;

Speech that drips, corrodes and poisons - even so the cobra bites;

Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw,

And the victim writhes with anguish - like the Jesuit with the squaw!

 

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer

With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her

Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands

To some God of abstract justice - which no woman understands.

 

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, 

that the Woman that God gave him

Must command but may not govern; 

shall enthrall but not enslave him.

And She knows, because She warns him and Her instincts never fail,

That the female of Her species is more deadly than the male!

 

   

FLINT AND FEATHER ()

Emily Pauline Johnson (-)

 

I AM Ojistoh, I am she, the wife

Of him whose name breathes bravery and life

And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.

I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he

Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.

 

Ah ! but they hated him, those Huron braves,

Him who had flung their warriors into graves,

Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,

Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steel

To all--save me, Ojistoh, chosen wife

Of my great Mohawk, white star of his life.

 

Ah ! but they hated him, and councilled long

With subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong ;

How to avenge their dead, and strike him where

His pride was highest, and his fame most fair.

Their hearts grew weak as women at his name :

They dared no war-path since my Mohawk came

With ashen bow, and flinten arrow-head

To pierce their craven bodies ; but their dead

Must be avenged. Avenged ? They dared not walk

In day and meet his deadly tomahawk ;

They dared not face his fearless scalping knife ;

So--Niyoh !  (*God, in the Mohawk language)

 

--then they thought of me, his wife.

O ! evil, evil face of them they sent

With evil Huron speech : "Would I consent

To take of wealth ? be queen of all their tribe ?

Have wampum ermine ? " Back I flung the bribe

Into their teeth, and said, "While I have life

Know this--Ojistoh is the Mohawk's wife."

 

Wah ! how we struggled ! But their arms were strong.

They flung me on their pony's back, with thong

Round ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleapt

The one I hated most : his eye he swept

Over my misery, and sneering said,

"Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead."

 

And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,

I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist,

He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashed

The horse to foam, as on and on we dashed.

Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,

On, on we galloped like a northern gale.

At last, his distant Huron fires aflame

We saw, and nearer, nearer still we came.

 

I, bound behind him in the captive's place,

Scarcely could see the outline of his face.

I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back :

"Loose thou my hands," I said. "This pace let slack.

Forget we now that thou and I are foes.

I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close ;

I like the courage of thine eye and brow ;

I like thee better than my Mohawk now."

 

He cut the cords ; we ceased our maddened haste

I wound my arms about his tawny waist ;

My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt ;

His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt ;

One hand caressed his cheek, the other drew

The weapon softly--"I love you, love you,"

I whispered, "love you as my life."

And--buried in his back his scalping knife.

 

Ha ! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased

Mad with sudden freedom, mad with haste,

Back to my Mohawk and my home. I lashed

That horse to foam, as on and on I dashed.

Plunging thro' creek and river, bush and trail,

On, on I galloped like a northern gale.

And then my distant Mohawk's fires aflame

I saw, as nearer, nearer still I came,

My hands all wet, stained with a life's red dye,

But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high--

"My Mohawk's pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I."

 

 

 

THE GALLEY OF COUNT ARNALDOS

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

 

AH! what pleasant visions haunt me

As I gaze upon the sea!

All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me.

 

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,

Such as gleam in ancient lore;

And the singing of the sailors,

And the answer from the shore!

 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad

Haunts me oft, and tarries long,

Of the noble Count Arnaldos

And the sailor’s mystic song.

 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos,

With his hawk upon his hand,

Saw a fair and stately galley,

Steering onward to the land;—

 

How he heard the ancient helmsman

Chant a song so wild and clear,

That the sailing sea-bird slowly

Poised upon the mast to hear.

 

Till his soul was full of longing,

And he cried, with impulse strong,—

‘Helmsman! for the love of heaven,

Teach me, too, that wondrous song!’

 

‘Wouldst thou,’—so the helmsman answered,—

 ‘Learn the secret of the sea?

Only those who brave its dangers

Comprehend its mystery!’

 

 

 

GRAN’S TEA THYME

Winifred Abbott

 

Pray take a cup of Tea;  Just one before you leave.

Thanks, we will be most charmed; Such kindness to receive.

Do you take milk and sugar? My dear, naturally!

Certainly with tea.

For it’s quite the pleasant fashion To take them with one’s tea.

 

And knock at the door when the clock strikes four,

And a welcome for you there will be.

For it’s really a boon in the afternoon

For a good cup of afternoon tea.

Now take out the tray and put everything straight;

No others will call for it’s getting so late.

 

So here’s to a cup of good tea;

Pray now, no long too strong

No stewing, no spoiling,

But water quite boiling,

For a cup of good afternoon tea.

   

 

HEREDITY

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

 

A soldier of the Cromwell stamp,

With sword and psalm-book by his side,

At home alike in church and camp:

Austere he lived, and smileless died.

 

But she, a creature soft and fine

From Spain, some say, some say from France:

Within her veins leapt blood like wine

She led her Roundhead lord a dance!

 

In Grantham church they lie asleep;

Just where, the verger may not know.

Strange that two hundred years should keep

The old ancestral fires aglow!

 

In me these two have met again;

To each my nature owes a part:

To one, the cool and reasoning brain;

To one, the quick, unreasoning heart.

 

 

 

I LIKE AMERICANS

Ernest Miller Hemingway, Attributed (1899-1961)

 

By A Foreigner

 

I like Americans.

They are so unlike Canadians.

They do not take their policemen seriously.

They come to Montreal to drink.

Not to criticize.

They claim they won the war.

But they know at heart that they didn't.

They have such respect for Englishmen.

They like to live abroad.

They do not brag about how they take baths.

But they take them.

Their teeth are so good.

And they wear B.V.D.'s all the year round.

I wish they didn't brag about it.

They have the second best navy in the world.

But they never mention it.

They would like to have Henry Ford for president.

But they will not elect him.

They saw through Bill Bryan.

They have gotten tired of Billy Sunday.

Their men have such funny hair cuts.

They are hard to suck in on Europe.

They have been there once.

They produced Barney Google, Mutt and Jeff.

And Jiggs.

They do not hang lady murderers.

They put them in vaudeville.

They read the Saturday Evening Post

And believe in Santa Claus.

When they make money

They make a lot of money.

They are fine people.

 

 

 

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER

Andrew Barton Paterson (1864-1941)

 

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

That the colt from old Regret had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far

Had mustered at the homestead overnight,

For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,

And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

 

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,

The old man with his hair as white as snow;

But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —

He would go wherever horse and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,

No better horseman ever held the reins;

For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,

He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

 

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —

And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won't say die —

There was courage in his quick impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

 

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said, ‘That horse will never do

 ‘For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you'd better stop away,

‘Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’

So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —

‘I think we ought to let him come,’ he said;

‘I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,

‘For both his horse and he are mountain bred.’

 

‘He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,

‘Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,

‘Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,

‘The man that holds his own is good enough.

‘And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,

‘Where the river runs those giant hills between;

‘I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,

‘But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.’

 

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —

They raced away towards the mountain's brow,

And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,

‘No use to try for fancy riding now.

‘And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.

‘Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,

‘For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,

‘If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

 

So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing

Where the best and boldest riders take their place,

And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring

With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,

But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,

And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,

And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

 

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread,

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back

From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,

Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;

And the old man muttered fiercely, ‘We may bid the mob good day,

‘No man can hold them down the other side.’

 

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,

It well might make the boldest hold their breath,

The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full

Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,

And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,

And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,

While the others stood and watched in very fear.

 

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,

He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,

And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —

It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.

Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible descent.

 

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,

And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,

Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,

As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.

Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met

In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,

With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

 

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.

He followed like a bloodhound on their track,

Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,

He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;

But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,

For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

 

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise

Their torn and rugged battlements on high,

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze

At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

 

 

 

MY LOST YOUTH

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

 

OFTEN I think of the beautiful town

That is seated by the sea;

Often in thought go up and down

The pleasant streets of that dear old town,

And my youth comes back to me.

And a verse of a Lapland song

Is haunting my memory still:

 ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,

And catch, in sudden gleams,

The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,

And islands that were the Hesperides

Of all my boyish dreams.

And the burden of that old song,

It murmurs and whispers still:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

I remember the black wharves and the slips,

And the sea-tides tossing free;

And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,

And the beauty and mystery of the ships,

And the magic of the sea.

And the voice of that wayward song

Is singing and saying still:

 ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,

And the fort upon the hill;

The sunrise gun with its hollow roar,

The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,

And the bugle wild and shrill.

And the music of that old song

Throbs in my memory still:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

I remember the sea-fight far away,

How it thunder’d o’er the tide!

And the dead sea-captains, as they lay

In their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bay

Where they in battle died.

And the sound of that mournful song

Goes through me with a thrill:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

 

I can see the breezy dome of groves,

The shadows of Deering’s woods;

And the friendships old and the early loves

Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves

In quiet neighbourhoods.

And the verse of that sweet old song,

It flutters and murmurs still:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart

Across the schoolboy’s brain;

The song and the silence in the heart,

That in part are prophecies, and in part

Are longings wild and vain.

And the voice of that fitful song

Sings on, and is never still:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

And Deering’s woods are fresh and fair,

And with joy that is almost pain

My heart goes back to wander there,

And among the dreams of the days that were

I find my lost youth again.

And the strange and beautiful song,

The groves are repeating it still:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

 

 

 

 

A PROUDER MAN THAN YOU

Henry Lawson (1867-1922)

 

If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine,

If you hint at higher breeding by a word or by a sign,

If you're proud because of fortune, or the clever things you do--

Then I'll play no second fiddle: I'm a prouder man than you!

 

If you think that your profession has the more gentility,

And that you are condescending to be seen along with me;

If you notice that I'm shabby, while your clothes are spruce and new--

You have only got to hint it: I'm a prouder man than you!

 

If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street,

And you think that I'm to common for your toney friend to meet,

So that I, though passing closely, fail to come within your view--

Then be blind to me forever; I'm a prouder man than you!

 

If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean,

While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have been,

Do not risk contamination; save your name whate'er you do--

Birds o' feather fly together: I'm a prouder man than you!

 

Keep your patronage for others!  Gold and station connot hide

Friendship that can laugh at fortune, friendship that can conquer pride!

Offer this as to an equal--let me see that you are true,

And my wall of pride is shattered: I am not so proud as you!

 

 

 

THE SWAGMAN'S REST

Andrew Barton Paterson (1864-1941)

 

We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave

At the foot of the Eaglehawk;

We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave,

For fear that his ghost might walk;

We carved his name on a bloodwood tree,

With the date of his sad decease, And in place of ‘Died from effects of spree’,

We wrote ‘May he rest in peace’.

 

For Bob was known on the Overland,

A regular old bush wag,

Tramping along in the dust and sand,

Humping his well-worn swag.

He would camp for days in the river-bed,

And loiter and ‘fish for whales’.

‘I'm into the swagman's yard’ he said,

‘And I never shall find the rails’

 

But he found the rails on that summer night

For a better place — or worse,

As we watched by turns in the flickering light

With an old black gin for nurse.

The breeze came in with the scent of pine,

The river sounded clear,

When a change came on, and we saw the sign

That told us the end was near.

 

But he spoke in a cultured voice and low —

‘I fancy they've “sent the route;”

‘I once was an army man, you know,

‘Though now I'm a drunken brute;

‘But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave,

‘And if ever you're fairly stuck,

‘Just take and shovel me out of the grave

‘And, maybe, I'll bring you luck.

 

‘For I've always heard —’ here his voice fell weak,

His strength was well-nigh sped,

He gasped and struggled and tried to speak,

Then fell in a moment — dead.

Thus ended a wasted life and hard,

Of energies misapplied —

Old Bob was out of the ‘swagman's yard’

And over the Great Divide.

 

The drought came down on the field and flock,

And never a raindrop fell,

Though the tortured moans of the starving stock

Might soften a fiend from hell.

And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave

When he went to the Great Unseen —

We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave

To see what his hint might mean.

 

We dug where the cross and the grave posts were,

We shovelled away the mould,

When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare

All gleaming with yellow gold.

'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk

That ran from the range's crest,

And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk

Is known as ‘The Swagman's Rest’.

 

More to come!
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