Works

We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
Practising sands.

Australia takes her pen in hand
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand
How proud we are of you.

From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson's Bay,...

Were all the world like you, my dear,
Were all the world like you,
Oh, there'd be darts in all our hearts
From sunset to the dew.
For life would be Love's jubilee
Where all were two and two,...

Were I a bird free born to fly
Aloof on two wee, downy wings,
My canopy would be the sky
When rosy morn its dawning springs.

Were I a bird I'd sweetly sing
Earth's vesper song in tree-tops high,...

Were I a skilful painter,
My pencil, not my pen,
Should try to teach thee hope and fear,
And who would blame me then?--
Fear of the tide of darkness
That floweth fast behind,...

Were not the sinful Mary's tears
An offering worthy Heaven,
When, o'er the faults of former years,
She wept--and was forgiven?

When, bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stored,...

Milicete Legend Of The Ouangond', Or River St. John.

Though the ebbing ocean listens
To Ugond''s throbbing roar,
Calm the conquering flood-tide glistens
Where the river raved before. [1]
...

Were you with me, or I with you,
There's nought, methinks, I might not do;
Could venture here, and venture there,
And never fear, nor ever care.

To things before, and things behind,...

(Bournemouth, 1875)



We sat at the window looking out,
And the rain came down like silken strings
That Swithin's day. Each gutter and spout
Babbled unchecked in the busy way...

We shall surely die:
Must we needs grow old?
Grow old and cold,
And we know not why?

O, the By-and-By,
And the tale that's told!
We shall surely die:
Must we needs grow old?
...

When madly raged religious war
O'er all the Magyar land
And royal archer and hussar
Met foemen hand to hand,
A princess fair in castle strong
The royal troops defied...

There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand
For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand,
Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly,...

Who the song would understand,
Needs must seek the song's own land.
Who the minstrel understand,
Needs must seek the minstrel's land.

Droop not, brothers!
As we go,
O'er the mountains,
Under the boughs of mistletoe,
Log huts we'll rear,
While herds of deer and buffalo
Furnish the cheer.
File o'er the mountains--steady, boys...

Every Sunday there's a throng
Of pretty girls, who trot along
In a pious, breathless state
(They are nearly always late)
To the Chapel, where they pray
For the sins of Saturday.
...

Crouch'd on the pavement close by Belgrave Square
A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied;
A babe was in her arms, and at her side
A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare....

When I behold, with deep astonishment,
To famous Westminster how there resorte,
Living in brasse or stoney monument,
The princes and the worthies of all sorte;
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie,...

Away to the west! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Where over the prairies the summer winds blow!

Why known to so few were its rivers and plains,
Where rustle so tall in their ripeness the grains?...

Another day awakes. And who -
Changing the world - is this?
He comes at whiles, the Winter through,
West Wind! I would not miss
His sudden tryst: the long, the new
Surprises of his kiss.
...

We thank Thee, Lord,
That of Thy tender grace,
In our distress
Thou hast not left us wholly comfortless.

We thank Thee, Lord,
That of Thy wondrous might,
Into our night...