A bleak black cape where, in the moaning
cave,
A blind cold water cries with all its storm
Through all the night, stands stark against
the South.
And in the North gaunt jaws of bitter reef
Wait, white with menace, for the
wind-whipped ship.
Here, midway, where the great gold morning
makes
A path of majesty across the sea,
There lies a space nigh stricken unto death
By gusts of gale that scourge with salt and
scurf
And biting brine and shard of sterile wave.
Here is the sick wan marsh where ever blows
A breeze whose breath is full of barrenness
-
A ghost of land chained back by crags where
faints
The pale salt blossom smitten with the harsh
Wild-flying spears of surf. Here ever sound
The great strange speeches of the strong sad
sea -
The words whose high dark majesty has awed
All men through all the years of all the
world!
But in the west, behind the hopeless sphere
Of gray dumb swamp, there lies a shining
tract
Of hill and plain and water. Everywhere
The eye is soothed by gracious colours. Here
Are fair green lawns that flash and fall
away
To banks of singing river. In this zone
Grave August sets her first of flowers; and
through
Deep woods of emerald sunshine, where the
rain
Is as tender dew, October sings
Her sweetest song, what time her yellow hair
Is blown about by fragrant western winds,
And bright light feet are tangled in the
leaves.
Here, where the myrtle hides the shy blue
bird
That loves the water, and the wailing oak -
That wild strange cithern of Australian
woods -
Is hardly heard, the mild mute morning comes
With soft serene surprises of the sun
And flying waves of shade. Yea, on these
tracts
The white noon of high heaven wears a robe
Of golden green; and where by herby banks
The hermit hornet hums in day's full life,
The quiet evening hears the slow sad song
Of far off ocean and the deepening tones
Of torrent music in the nearest glens.
Back in the west the blue magnificence
Of marshalled mountains in a lordly land
Completes the noble picture. Royal hills
That hold a high companionship with clouds
And are the towers of tempest - peaks that
know
Large lordship of the morning, and the light
And breadth and strength of blue mid-heaven,
form
A background of exalted grandeur! Lo,
These peers of flying planets tower above
Green gradual slopes of hiss and singing
dells
And lawns of grace - these see the rose-red
first
Of radiant morning, and they wear the rich
Apparel of the sunset with the green
Above the glowing gold and crimson. Here
The marvelous power and beauty of the world
Exalt the soul like some majestic strain
Of slow cathedral music; and it hears
In every voice of every wind and stream,
In every song that lives within the hill,
In every anthem from the far off sea
An utterance like the very voice of God.
Taree
by Henry Kendall
Here, where the silver stream of Manning
strays,
By folded hills and great green gracious
ways,
Where, when the autumn's last by June is
met,
Some pure, sweet blossom keeps its colour
yet.
I speak this song, we children meet tonight,
To offer you our first fair flowers of
light,
What though these feeble efforts that you
see
Are poor and pale beginnings, trust that we
Will, in the fuller life, present some sign
Of natural gifts that in your eyes will
shine.
For in this land of beauty, where the sun
Is ever soft on all it looks upon,
Will dawn when all the words of all I say
Be sure that bright results will come. The
day
Will prove a splendid prophecy. So take
With love these primal efforts that we make.
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