BALLAARAT

A VISION OF GOLD
I see a lone stream, rolling down
Through valleys green, by ranges brown
Of hills that bear no name,
The dawn's full blush in crimson flakes
Is traced on palest blue, as breaks
The morn in Orient flame.
I see—whence comes that eager gaze?
Why rein the steed, in wild amaze?
The water's hue is gold!
Golden its wavelets foam and glide,
Through tenderest green to ocean-tide
The fairy streamlet rolled.
"Forward, 'Hope!' forward! truest steed,
Of tireless hoof and desert speed,
Up the weird water bound,
Till, echoing far and sounding deep,
I hear old Ocean's hoarse voice sweep
O'er this enchanted ground?"
[Pg 238]The sea!—wild fancy! Many a mile
Of changeful Nature's frown and smile
Ere stand we on the shore.
And, yet! that murmur, hoarse and deep,
None save the ocean-surges keep?
It is—"the cradles' roar!"
Onward! we pass the grassy hill,
Around the base the waters still
Shimmer in golden foam;
O wanderer of the voiceless wild,
Of this far southern land the child,
How changed thy quiet home!
For, close as bees in countless hive,
Like emmet hosts that earnest strive,
Swarmed, toiled, a vast, strange crowd:
Haggard each worker's features seem,
Bright, fever-bright, each eye's wild gleam,
Nor cry, nor accent loud.
But each man dug, or rocked, or bore,
As if salvation with the ore
Of the mine-monarch lay.
Gold strung each arm to giant might,
Gold flashed before each aching sight,
Gold turned the night to day.
Where Eblis reigns o'er boundless gloom,
And, in his halls of endless doom
Lost souls for ever roam,
They wander (says the Eastern tale),
Nor ever startles moan or wail
Despair's eternal home.
[Pg 239]Less silent scarce than that pale host
These toiled, as if each moment lost
Were the red life-drop spilt;
While, heavy, rough, and darkly bright,
In every shape, rolled to the light
Man's hope, and pride, and guilt.
All ranks, all ages! Every land
Had sent its conscripts forth, to stand
In the gold-seekers' rank:
The stalwart bushman's sinewy limb,
The pale-faced son of trade—e'en him
Who knew the fetters' clank.
      *         *         *         *         *
'Tis night: her jewelled mantle fills
The busy valley, the dun hills,
'Tis a battle host's repose!
A thousand watch-fires redly gleam,
While ceaseless fusillades would seem
To warn approaching foes.
The night is older. On the sward
Stretched, I behold the heavens broad,
When—a Shape rises dim,
Then, clearer, fuller, I descry,
By the swart brow, the star-bright eye,
The Gnome-king's presence grim!
He stands upon a time-worn block;
His dark form shades the snowy rock
As cypress marble tomb:
Nor fierce yet wild and sad his mien,
His cloud-black tresses wave and stream,
His deep tones break the gloom.
[Pg 240]"Son of a tribe accursed, of those
Whose greed has broken our repose
Of the long ages dead,
Think ye, for nought our ancient race
Leaves olden haunts, the sacred place
Of toils for ever fled?
"List while I tell of days to come,
When men shall wish the hammers dumb
That ring so ceaseless now;
That every arm were palsy-tied,
Nor ever wet on grey hillside
Was the gold-seeker's brow.
"I see the old world's human tide
Set southward on the ocean wide.
I see a wood of masts,
While crime or want, disease or death,
With each sigh of the north-wind's breath,
He on this fair shore casts.
"I see the murderer's barrel gleam,
I hear the victim's hopeless scream
Ring through these crimeless wastes;
While each base son of elder lands
Each witless dastard, in vast bands
To the gold-city hastes.
"Disease shall claim her ready toll,
Flushed vice and brutal crime the dole
Of life shall ne'er deny;
Danger and death shall stalk your streets,
While staggering idiocy greets
The horror-stricken eye!
[Pg 241]"All men shall roll in the gold mire—
The height, the depth of man's desire—
Till come the famine years;
Then all the land shall curse the day
When first they rifled the dull clay,
With deep remorseful tears.
"Fell want shall wake to fearful life
The fettered demons. Civil strife
Rears high a gory hand!
I see a blood-splashed barricade,
While dimly lights the twilight glade
The soldier's flashing brand.
"But thou, son of the forest free!
Thou art not, wert not foe to me,
Frank tamer of the wild!
Thou hast not sought the sunless home
Where darkly delves the toiling Gnome,
The mid-earth's swarthy child.
"Then, be thou ever, as of yore,
A dweller in the woods, and o'er
Fresh plains thy herds shall roam.
Join not the vain and reckless crowd
Who swell the city's pageant proud,
But prize thy forest home."
He said: and, with an eldritch scream,
The Gnome-king vanished—and my dream:
Dawn's waking hour returned;
Yet still the wild tones echoed clear,
For many a day in reason's ear,
And my heart inly burned.

[Pg 242]
THE DEATH OF WELFORD[1]

[1] A young Englishman, "killed by blacks on the Barcoo."
Out by the far west-waters,
On the sea-land of the South,
Untombed the bones of a white man lay,
Slowly crumbling to kindred clay—
Sad prayer from Death's mute mouth!
Alone, far from his people,
The sun of his life went down.
A cry for help? No time—not a prayer:
As red blood splashed thro' riven hair,
His soul rose to Heaven's throne.
Ah! well for those felon hands
Which the strong man foully slew,
The cry from the Cross when our Saviour died
"Father, forgive"—as they pierced His side—
"For they know not what they do."
They have souls, say the teachers
Hereafter, the same as we:
If so, it is hid from human grace
By blood-writ crimes of savage race
So deep, that we cannot see.
[Pg 243]Fear than love is far stronger:
The cruel have seldom to rue:
The neck is bowed 'neath the heavy heel,
Love's covenant with Death they seal;
"For they know not what they do."
This Dead, by the far sun-down,
This man whom they idly slew,
Was lover and friend to those who had slain
With him all human love, like Cain;
But "they know not what they do."
'Twixt laws Divine and human
To judge, if we only knew,
When the blood is hot, to part wrong from right,
When to forgive and when to smite
Foes who "know not what they do."
The wronger and wronged shall meet
For judgment, to die, or live;
And the heathen shall cry, in anguish fell,
At sight of the Bottomless Pit of Hell—
"We knew not, O Lord! Forgive."

[Pg 244]
SUNSET IN THE SOUTH
It is Autumn, it is sunset, magic shower of tint and hue;
All the west is hung with banners, white with golden, crimson, blue;
Drooping folds! far floating, mingling, falling on the river's face;
Upturned, placid, silver-mirrored, gazing into endless space.
Faint the breath of eve, low-sighing for bright summer's fading charms;
Woodland cries are echoing, chiming with the sounds from distant farms;
And the stubble fires are gleaming red athwart the wood's deep shade,
While the marsh mist, slowly rising, shrouds the greenery of the glade.
Redly still the day is dying, as if o'er the desert waste,
And we pictured camels, Arabs, and the solemn outline traced
Of a pillared lonely Fane, clear against the crimson rim,
Voiceless, but of empire telling, and the lore of ages dim.
[Pg 245]Low the deep voice of the ocean, whispering to the silent strand;
Gleam the stars, in silver ripples; stretches broad the milk-white sand;
And a long, low bark is lying underneath the island shore
Weird and dream-like, darksome, soundless, spell-struck now, and evermore.
Deeper, darker fall the shadows, and the charmed colours wane,
Fading, as the fay-gold changes into earth and dross again,
Wildfowl stream in swaying files landward to the marshy plain;
Louder sound the forest voices and the deep tones of the main.

[Pg 246]
"BALACLAVA"
The word is "Charge," the meaning "Death,"
Yet, welcome falls the sound
On every ear in the listening host,
Whose pennons flutter, zephyr-tossed,
That messenger around.
Among them Nolan reins a steed
Frost-white with gathered foam,
And pale and stern points to the foe,
In heavy mass, receding slow—
"Charge, comrades, charge them home!"
There rides one with fearless brow,
By time and sorrow scarred.
For him life knows no tale untold,
But empty names, love, hope, and gold,—
Cool player of Fate's last card!
Beside him, he whose golden youth
Is in its pride and bloom.
His thoughts are with a dear old home,
Its loved ones, and that other one,
And will she mourn his doom?
[Pg 247]Another knows of a sweet fond face
That will fade into ashy pale
As she hears the tale of that day of tears;
And a prayer rises to Him who hears
The widow and orphan's wail.
"We die," passed through each warrior's heart,
"And vainly, but the care
Rests not with us; 'tis ours to show
The world, old England, and the foe,
What Englishmen can dare."
Then bridle-reins are gathered up,
And sabres blaze on high,
And as each charger bounds away
Doubts flee like ghosts at opening day,
And each man joys to die.
St. George! it is a glorious sigh............