Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

IV

COLONIAL POETS

(INDIA – AUSTRALASIA — DOMINION OF CANADA)

1837-1894

ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES

SHE stands, a thousand-wintered tree,

By countless morns impearled ;
Her broad roots coil beneath the sea,

Her branches sweep the world ;
Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed,

Clothe the remotest strand
With forests from her scatterings made,
New nations fostered in her shade,

And linking land with land.
O ye by wandering tempest sown

'Neath every alien star,
Forget not whence the breath was blown

That wafted you afar!
For ye are still her ancient seed

On younger soil let fall
Children of Britain's island-breed,
To whom the Mother in her need
Perchance may one day call.

WILLIAM WATSON. POEMS: 1893.

COLONIAL POETS

(INDIA — AUSTRALASIA — DOMINION OF CANADA)

INDIA

See Toru Dutt, RUDYARD KIPLING, in the preceding division of this Anthology.

See also, in the second division, SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, SIR ALFRED LYALL, poets of English birth, and sometime resident in India

AUSTRALASIA

(See also: A. DOMETT, R. H. HORNE, W. SHARP, D. B. W. SLADEN)

[blocks in formation]

see !

Only there's a drowsy humming
From yon warm lagoon slow-coming :
'Tis the dragon-hornet -
All bedaubed resplendently
Yellow on a tawny ground
Each rich spot not square nor round,
Rudely heart-shaped, as it were
T'he blurred and hasty impress there
Of a vermeil-crusted seal
Dusted o'er with golden meal.
Only there's a droning where
Yon bright beetle shines in air,
Tracks it in its gleaming flight
With a slanting beam of light
Rising in the sunshine higher,
Till its shards flame out like fire.

[blocks in formation]

Every other thing is still,
Save the ever-wakeful rill,
Whose cool murmur only throws
Cooler comfort round repose ;
Or some ripple in the sea,
Of leafy boughs, where, lazily,
Tired summer, in her bower
Turning with the noontide hour,
Heaves a slumbrous breath ere she
Once more slumbers peacefully.

Oh, 't is easeful here to lie
Hidden from noon's scorching eye,
In this grassy cool recess
Musing thus of quietness.

And but for thee, I would their fire

Had eaten me as fast !
Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry

Yet lengthening up the blast!
But no — when his bound hands had signed

The way that we shouid fly,
On the roaring pyre flung bleeding -

I saw thy father die !
No more shall his loud tomahawk

Be plied to win our cheer,
Or the shining fish pools darken

Beneath his shadowing spear;
The fading tracks of his fleet foot

Shall guide not as before,
And the mountain-spirits mimic
His hunting call no more !
O moan not! I would give this braid -

Thy father's gift to me -
For but a single palmful

Of water now for thee.

AN ABORIGINAL MOTHER'S

LAMENT

STILL farther would I fly, my child,

To make thee safer yet
From the unsparing white man,

With his dread hand murder-wet !

Giobert Lowe, Uiscount Sherbrooke

SONG OF THE SQUATTER The commissioner bet me a pony - I won, So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run ; For be said I was making a fortune too

fast, And profit gained slower the longer would

last.

He remarked, as devouring my mutton be

sat, That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly

too fat ; That they wasted waste land, did prerogs

tive brown, And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the

Crown ;

[blocks in formation]
« AnteriorContinuar »