Chapters 40
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1 01 - Morna Lee 10:34
Morna Lee. John Ware-a-stun rode through the mulga scrub, and the gravel shone black and bare, for the long white mulga grass was gone, and no dune or rain came there. He rode by the shady gidjikamps, where the cattle had crawled to die, and by creeks that failed ere the summer came, and lagoons that had long been dry, where the bones of the beasts that had perished. Lay a bleach in the brick-burnt mire, and the ground was aglow neath old emperor's hoofs, and the wind was the breath of fire. John Warris then wrote with a heavy heart and a slackening wrist and knee for the loss that faced him on every side and the thought of Morna Lee. Morna Lee. Had your lot been cast with mine in these days of woe, I had feared not the fiercest suns that shine, nor the bitterest winds that blow.
What to us were my mother's taunt that of gypsy race you came? My father's ban, or my brother's scorn, or my sister's gentle blame? I braved them all for your bright brown eyes and the love betwixt the twain, and I dreamed that you would defy them too, but alas, my dream was vain. So the trees you gave when our trough was new and the ring you would not wear are all that shall ever be mine and yours till I meet you of their wear. I fought to forget you, and I wed, and my bride was fond and fair. The boy that she bore has her soft blue eyes, and her smile and her sunny hair. But her spirit sank in this wilderness, and I sent her over sea, to the kin she longed for as I longed for my one love, Morna Lee.
Old Emperor His master ceased from his musing sad and vain, and he gazed around on the drought-cursed ground with a prayer in his heart for rain. Not for my sake, O God, he said, but for theirs do I seek thy grace, for the mother and babe whose heritage thou makest a barren place. A Touch So light it was scarce a touch of the rider's rowled heel. But erst was enough for the old horse, now he stood to the stinging steel. Tawaris then woke from the maze of care, and saw what his steed had seen. A wild mare left by her troop to die where the waters once had been. Too weak to follow her kin in quest of the streams that flowed afar. Famine and thirst would have done their worst ere the wane of the even star.
Staring now was her sable coat and wistful her fearless eye. John Warriston watched her as she lay till he could not pass her by. Swift he unbuckled the water bag that hung at his saddle-bow. Emperor and I can want for once. This draft is the wild mare's now. He opened her mouth, and he made her drink, for she lacked the strength to flee. And her look in his face as he left her side was the look of Morna Lee. With the empty bag at his saddle-bow he mounted and rode away, at the utmost speed of the good-grace-deed that had carried him many a day. But he halted again at the hillside camp and let the old horse go, and he lit his fire and smoked his pipe and gazed on the afterglow, till the rhythmic beat of the trammelled feet grew faint.
And afar was heard the tuneless bell as if sweet notes fell from the throat of the chime-voiced bird. He dreamt as he slept that a spirit swept from the sweltering Indian seas, and her misty pinions veiled the moon in her trailing robes the trees, and he woke to the scent of the sandal-wood and knew that once again There had flown from the east for man and beast the angel of the rain. A wind, sea-born of the wild monsoon, a flash like the heavens aflame, a thunder-crash like the crash of doom, and the wished-for waters came. John Warris then waited not for the dawn on the tracks of the good old grey, for a dam that yet had never been wet must stand or fall that day. And he passed with a heart that was praising heaven through the floods he could not see, and a pitiful thought for the perishing beast with the eyes of Morna Lee.
The fresh-filled creeks ran redly yet, and yellow and white anew. Tall lilies rose from the green morass, and the nesting wild-fowl flew, when with broken hobbles and tongueless bell and the long familiar stride, Emperor came to the station rails with the wild mare at his side. Wife to cherish, or child to cheer, in that lonely house was none. Toil and rest in the night-long guest were the sun from sun to sun, but the tender touch of his lean brown hand on the flowers it cherished fell, fonder yet on each household pet and the horse that had served him well. Fonder than all, when slim and tall the wild thing trembling came, on the head that pressed his forsaken breast whilst he called her by her name.
Seven years of plenty, there were need of another seven beside, that the brand of the drought may fade from out the land that heavenward cried, so long in vain for the blessed rain and the second seven may be, John Lorest amused by his lonely hearth. But they will not profit me. Another shall claim the herds I kept neath the frost in the tropic beam. His flock shall drink at the dams I saved, waist-deep in the midnight stream, where I watched with a heart-sick prayer to heaven. He may sleep with no prayer denied, but one name that I loved he shall never learn, one horse that I rode ne'er ride. One for the mound is green above the bones of the gallant gray. And the wild mare goes with me where I go, or stays where he must stay.
The muster began ere the morning broke, and neighbor and friend were there. But where is then road for the boy he loved, and the far-off wife and fair? And the black mare answered the urging heel, as never did mare before. But she fell in her leap where the bank was steep, and he knew he should ride no more. John Ware's son lay in the darkened room. He was dying and could not die. Day after day he had heard the shouts as the cattle were driven by. Day after day as the slow sun grew, he dreaded the coming day. Horses were failing and riders bent, and half of the herd away. Over the range as they brought them back and out from the brig alone, and from under the giant gums that mark where the frequent waters flow.
They quitted their fires ere the stars were quenched, they camped on the creek at noon, and the station rails like silver shone at the rising of the moon. What was it frightened the timorous heard, the bay of the tethered hound, the chant of the swarthy mother above the bay that held her arms and wound? For the mighty mass was riven and shed like a raft that parts at sea, and where was the horse that should head them now? Ion the rider, where was he? John Warriston heard the wild stampede, and he shattered the shutter bar, and gazed on the flying herd without, and the moveless moon and star. Pray for the boy that is beggared now, if room in heaven there be, for the love that wrecks not of thine and mine, O Morna, Morna Lee.
A shadow athwart the cloudless moon. A check in the headlong speed of the broken ranks, they are steadied now, they are stayed by a riderless steed, till the horsemen rally in one and all are pent in the yards ere day, but the dews shall drive from their mossy hides and the brands unreddened stay. For in hush of the homestead whispering the bearded bushman tell of the gallop that shamed them all and killed the steed that he loved so well. And the dirge of a savage race rings high where the white man's grave shall be, and the harpy's haste where the brave heart broke of the wild mare, Morna Lee.
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2 02 - Where The Pelican Builds 1:42
Where the Pelican Builds The unexplored parts of Australia are sometimes spoken of by the Bushmen of Western Queensland as the home of the pelican, a bird whose nesting-place, so far as the rider knows, is seldom, if ever found. The horses were ready, the rails were drawn, but the riders lingered still, One had a parting word to say, and one had his pipe to fill. But they mounted, one with a granted prayer, and one with a grief unguessed. "'We are going,' they said, as they rode away, where the pelican builds her nest. They had told us of pastures white and green, to be sought past the sunset's glow, of rifts of the ranges by opal-lit, and gold neath the river's flow. And thirst and hunger were banished words when they spoke of that unknown west.
No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared, where the pelican builds her nest. The creek at the ford was but fetlock deep when we watched them crossing there. The rains have replenished it thrice since then, and thrice has the rock lain bare. But the waters of hope have flowed and fled, and never from Blue Hill's breast come back. By the sun and the sands devoured, where the pelican builds her nest.
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3 03 - New Country 1:57
New Country by Mary Henné Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Paul Harvey. Condi had come with us all the way, Eight hundred miles but the fortnight's rest, Made him fresh as a youngster the sturdy bay, And Lurlein was looking her very best. Weary and footsore the cattle strayed, Mid the silvery saltbush well content, Where the creeks lay cool neath the giddy's shade, the stock horses clustered, travel spent.
In the bright spring morning we left them all, camp and cattle, and white and black, and rode for the range's westward fall, where the dingo's trail was the only track.
Slow through the claypans, wet to the knee, with the cane grass rustling overhead, swift o'er the plains, with never a tree, up the cliffs by a torrent's bed. Bridal on arm for a mile or more, we toiled ere we reached Bendana's verge, and saw, as one sees afar offshore, the blue hills bounding the forest surge. An ocean of trees by the west wind stirred, rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliffs' base, and its sound like the noise of waves was heard mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place. We reeked not of wealth in stream or soil, as we heard on the heights the breezes sing. We felt no longer our travel toil. We feared no more what the years might bring.
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4 04 - Up North 2:22
Up North, by Mary Hannae Foote. Read for LibriVox.org, by Whiskey Song. Bedtime with Barslow.
Into thy hands let me fall, O Lord, not into the hands of men. And she thinned the ranks of the savage horde till they shrank to the mangrove fen. In a rudderless boat, with a scanty store of food for the fated three, with her babe and her stricken servitor, She fled to the open sea. Oh, days of dollar and nights of drouth, while she watched for a sail in vain, or the tawny tinge of a river-mouth, or the rush of the tropic rain. The valiant woman, her feeble oar sufficed, and her fervent prayer was heard, though she reached but a barren shore, and died with her darling there. For the demons of murder and foul disgrace On her hearthstone dared not light, but the angel of womanhood held the place, and its sight is a holy sight.
End of poem.
The incident referred to in the above poem took place a few years ago in one of the small islands off the northern coast of Queensland. Mrs. Watson, wife of a besh der Mer Fischer, was left in her husband's absence. with her infant child and two Chinese servants on the island. The homestead was attacked by wild blacks from the mainland, one of her servants killed and the other wounded. Mrs. Watson defended her home so effectually with her revolver that the assailants withdrew. Fearing their return, she placed some little provision in an iron tank which had been cut down so that it served as a boat, and embarking in the frail vessel with her child and the wounded man, she strove to make her way to some place of refuge.
The tank was found sometime afterwards on the shore of an uninhabited and waterless island, where the remains of the ill-fated voyagers were also discovered. Mrs. Watson kept a diary almost up to the last. End of footnote. This recording is in the public domain. Recording by WhiskeySong. Bedtime with Barcelo.ca.
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5 05 - In The Land of Dreams 1:16
with blessings unnamed and unknown, was spread. And too, who wrote through its leafy early, but never the sound of a hostess chat. And one by one was the foremost writer, puts bad bonds which have gone the place. And side by side where the track is weathered, together they come to the autumn place. To the lift I pull when the mallards flattered, or ever the horses had passed to drink, where the word was said and the well was ordered, the burden forever is really blank, and memory closes her sad recital. In faith's cold eyes there are kindly gleams. Well for one brief moment of Blatt's requital, the part half mad in the land of James.
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6 06 - Happy Days 0:55
Happy Days by Mary Hanny Foote. A fringe of rushes, one green line upon a faded plain, a silver streak of watershine above tree-watchers twain. It was our resting-place awhile, and still, with backward gaze, we say, "'Tis many a weary mile, but there were happy days." And shall no ripple break the sand upon our farther way, or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand, or leafy tree-tops sway? The gold of dawn is surely met in sunset's lavish blaze, and in horizons hidden yet there shall be happy days.
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7 07 - In Time of Drought 1:28
In the Time of Drought The River of God is Full of Water The rushes are black by the river-bed, And the sheep and the cattle stand, wistful-eyed, Where the waters were, in a waste of gravel and sand. War pass o'er their dying and dead, To slake their thirst at the slimy pool. Shall they pine and perish in pangs of drought, while thy river, O God, is full? The fields are furrowed, and the seed is sown, but no dews from the heavens are shed. And where shall the grain for the harvest be, and how shall the poor be fed? In waterless gullies they winnow the earth, new-turned by the miner's tool, and the wayfarer faints neath his lightened load, yet the river of God is full. For us, O father, from tropic seas, let the clouds be filled that shed rough rains upon Andes' eastward slope, soft snows on Himali's head.
Freight for us as for others, thy dark winged fleet, that soon by the waters cool we may say with gladness, Our need was great, but the river of God was full.
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8 08 - "He Sendeth His Rain" 0:51
He Sendeth His Rain Fresh leaflets tinged the gray gum's crest, Young grass makes green the russet plain. Again the wild duck seeks her nest, The bell-bird's note is heard again, And soft blue mist-rack floats afar at eve From waters gathering yet, And bright beneath the morning star The dewy woodlands glister wet. Glad autumn of a joyless year, thee wood and stream and wildling bless, and they no less thy dews hold dear, whom heaven hath heard in their distress.
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9 09 - The Aurora Australis 2:54
The Aurora Australis A radiance in the midnight sky No white moon gave, nor yellow star We thought its red glow mounted high Where fire and forest fought afar.
Half questioning if the township Blazed, perchance beyond the boundary hill. Then, finding what it was, we gazed, and wondered till we shivered chill. And fancy showed the sister glow of our aurora sending lines, of lustre forth to tint the snow that lodges in Norwegian pines. And south and north alternate swept. And vision passed us to and fro, while stealthy winds of midnight crept about us whispering fast and low.
The North, whose star burns steadily, high set in heaven long ago. The South, new risen on the sea, a tremulous horizon glow.
We mused, shall there be gallant guests. Within our polar hermitage, as on the shore where Franklin rests, and others named in glory's page.
And, shall the light we look on blaze, above such battles as have been, in other countries, other days, the giants and the gods between.
Till one declared, we live to-night. In what shall be the poet's world? The lands neath our aurora's light Are as the rocks the titans hurled.
From southern waters, ice enthralled, Year after year the rays that glance Shall see the desert shrink appalled Before the city's swift advance. Shall see the precipice astare, The river as a road, and then There shall be voices to declare This work was wrought by manly men. And so ourself, all stately swept, In vision past us to and fro, While stealthy winds of midnight crept About us, whispering fast and low.
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10 10 - Nearing Port 3:32
A blue line to the westward that surely is not cloud, A green tinge in the waters, a clamorous bird-crowd, Then far off foamy edges, and hill-tops, timber-fringed, And perched aloft a lighthouse, O'er gray cliffs golden-tinged, O watchers leaning landward, know ye of nothing more, and hear ye but the sea-birds, and see ye but the shore? Nay, look a while, and listen who bids you welcome there. The great seas kiss her sandals, the high stars gem her hair. Behold her in the gateway, high held in either hand, a blazing beacon lighted to lead you to the land.
Now welcome, kindly welcome, who come to me for cheer. My forts may frown on others, but ye have naught to fear. The cannon's flash and thunder are all for joy to-day. No murmurs meet your coming, none wish to bar your way. O later called to labor, shall we who toiled at morn remember, as against you, the heat and burthen born? No, verily we shall not, we pray the labor's lord, may give you, aftercomers, a full day's full reward.
Now fear not, fair-haired maiden, for gladness awaits thee here, as by thy father's fireside in bygone days and dear. Thy troubled brow, O matron, beneath its silvering hair, shall gain no fresher furrows, shall lose its look of care. No longer for thy household the winter needst thou dread, nor fearing for tomorrow shall stint the children's bread. And thou, a mother's darling, on those young locks of thine, what midnight rains shall batter, what tropic suns shall shine, thy tender hands, toil-hardened, unwanted tools shall wield, shall fell the columned forests, Shall till the furrowed field. Yet when at England's fireside her olden tales are told, perchance, mid tearful silence, one from the land of gold, shall tell a brave new story of want and work and care, of trial and of triumph, to touch the coldest there.
Now enter ye a haven, Your fathers have not known. Now dwell ye in a country that once was not your own. Part of the new world's army the pioneers are ye, for whom their weights ungathered the wealth of earth and sea. No need of fiery baptism, no blood, no tears to flow. Ah, legions of the Caesars, had you but conquered so. Ah, Vikings in Valhalla! Our father's dead and gone. Could you have made such landing, such golden shores upon?
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11 11 - The Future of Australia 3:46
The Future of Australia by Mary Hannay Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stephens. Sing us the land of the southern sea, the land we have called our own. Tell us what harvest there shall be from seed that we have sown. We love the legends of olden days, the songs of the wind and wave, and border ballads and minstrel lays. And the poems Shakespeare gave, the fireside carols and battle rhymes, and romance of the knightly ring, and the chant with hint of cathedral chimes, of him made blind to sing. The tears they tell of our brethren wept, their praise is our father's fame. They sing of the seas our navies swept, of the shrines that lent us flame. But past is past, with all its pride, and its ways are not our ways.
We watch the flow of a fresher tide, and the dawn of newer days. Sing us the isle of the southern sea, the land we have called our own. Tell us what harvest there shall be, from the seed that we have sown. I see the child we are tending now, to a queenly statue grown. The jewels of empire on her brow, and purple round her throne. She feeds her household plenteously, from the granaries we have filled. Her vintage is gathered in with glee from the fields our toil has tilled. The old world's outcast starvelings feast, ungrudged on her corn and wine. The gleaners are welcome from west and east. Where her autumn sickles shine. She clothes her people in silk and wool, whose warp and whose woof we spun.
And sons and daughters are hers to rule, and of slaves she has not won. There are herds of hers on a thousand hills. There are fleecy flocks untold. No foreign conquest her coffer fills. She has streams whose sands are gold. She shall not scramble for falling crowns. No theft her soul shall soil. So rich in rivers, so dowered with downs, she shall have no need of spoil. But if, wronged or menaced, she shall stand where the battle surges swell, be a sword from heaven in her swarthy hand, like the sword of La Poussel. If there be ever so Ask, as the taunt in his teeth is hurled, what lineage sprang she from, who was empress once of the pagan world and the queen of Christendom? When the toilsome years of her youth are o'er, and her children round her throng, They shall learn from her of the sage's law, and her lips shall teach them song.
Then of those in the dust who dwell, may their kindly mention be when the birds that built in the branches tell of the planting of the tree.
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12 12 - Wentworth 2:58
Wentworth by Mary Hannay Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stephens. "'Tis a new thing for Australia that the waters to her bear, One who seeks not strength of sunshine, or the breath of healing air, One who wrecks not of her riches, nor remembers she is fair, One who land and houses henceforth holdeth not for evermore." Coming for such narrow dwelling as the dead need to the shore, named aforetime by the Spirit to receive the garb it wore. "'Tis a strange thing for Australia that her name should be the name, breathed ere death by one who loved her, claiming, with a patriot's claim, earth of her as chosen grave place, rather than the lands of fame, rather than the sacred city." Where a sepulchre was sought, for the noblest hearts of Europe, rather than the country fraught with the incense of the altars whence our household gods were brought.
"'Tis a proud thing for Australia, while the funeral prayers are said, to remember loving service frankly rendered by the dead, how he strove amid the nations evermore to raise her head." How in youth he sang her glory, as it is and is to be. Called her Empress, while they held her yet as base-born over sea. Owned her Mother, when her children scarce were counted with the free. How he claimed of king and commons, that his birth-land should be used, as a daughter, not an alien, till the boon so oft refused. was withheld at last no longer, and the former bonds were loosed. How the scars of serfdom faded, how he led within the light of her fireside earth's immortals, chrism-touched from Olympus' height, whom gods loved, for whom the new faith, too, has guestrooms garnished bright.
It is a great thing for Australia that a child of early years shared her path of desert travel. Bread of sorrow, drink of tears, holding by her to these hilltops whence her promised place appears. Titles were not hers to offer as the mead of service done. Rank of peer or badge of knighthood, star or ribbon, she had none, but she breathes a mother's blessing o'er the ashes of her son. 6th of May, 1873.
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13 13 - The Fate of Bass 2:33
A Fancy. A.D. 1800s. On the snow line of the summit stood the Spaniard's English slave, and the frightened condor westward flew afar, where the torch of Cotopaxi lit the wide Pacific wave. And the tender moon embraced a newborn star. Blanched the cheek that austral breezes off Van Diemen's coast had tanned, bent the form that on the deck stood stalwart there. Slim and pallid as a woman's was the sailor's sunburnt hand, and untimely silver streaked the strongman's hair. From the forest far beneath him came the baffled Bloodhound's Bay. From the gusty slope the campfire's fitful glow, but the pass the Indian told of o'er the cliff beside him lay, and beyond the mighty rivers eastward flow. Mind the secret of the Incas to the tyrants never told, mind the cloven rock the league-long sculptured way, ere the weary scouts awaken, ere the embers are grown cold.
Ere the dogs in dreams their quarry, seize and slay. Freedom's threshold. Yet he tarries, gazes seaward, southward still, past the gulfs where fainting chain-gangs toil entombed, and the furnace of the smelter taints the winds of every hill with the fumes that sway the dying and the doomed. Never. Never, gallant seaman, may the land that lit thy dreams in the starless drive make glad thine eyes again, where, through tropic heavens at midnight the Antarctic glory streams, and a sea of blossom floods the wintry plain. Nevermore the settler's welcome at the sinking of the sun, nor his godspeed mid the fragrant austral morn, shattered, spent. And brokenhearted, yet a guerdon thou hast won, and where brave souls meet thou shalt not stand forlorn.
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14 14 - Queensland to New South Wales 2:12
Queensland to New South Wales by Mary Hannie Foote. 26th January, 1888. A Centennial Greeting. Joy be with thee, elder sister, on thy proud centennial day, all thy stalwart sons about thee, and thy daughters, dear as they, and the sheaves of thy thanksgiving gladdening with their golden glow. Land that lay a glebe unbroken but a hundred years ago. Thou hast crowned thyself with cities, and no stone is built on wrong. Freemen tend thy flocks at pasture, freemen dwell thy hills among. Never Ural, never Andes, held such wealth as is thine own, by no sweat of serfdom tainted, purchased by no bondsman's groan. Nor for gain alone thy striving, nor to sit in place of pride, while thy roof-tree still was lowly, thou didst lodge in chambers wide, learning, charity, religion, of thy hard-won store bestowed.
In each steep by thee surmounted, thou hast hewn for them a road. On the heights of wave-washed Sydney stand her stately college towers, far and wide. Full many a hospice waits to soothe misfortune's hours. From the altar-fires thou kindlest, there be brands already born, to illumine the earth's dark places, and to comfort the forlorn. Joy be with thee, O our sister! We thy kin are glad with thee, for the greatness of thy present, for the glory that shall be, when the noblest of the nations, she, We all alike hold dear, calls thee not alone her daughter, but for evermore her peer.
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15 15 - Melbourne International Exhibition 9:15
Melbourne International Exhibition by Mary Annie Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens. AD 1880. Argument. One. The house being ready, Victoria prepares to receive the nations whom she has invited. They approach the various countries of Europe, Asia, Africa, of the American continent, the Australian colonies, And those of Polynesia, some of them greater than any which ever paid tribute to Rome or did homage to a medieval monarch, and their products superior to those which, in olden times, were fit gifts from one king to another. Two. Victoria salutes the other Australian colonies and asks them to unite with her in greeting her other guests. They then welcome the various countries of Asia, Africa, Then, Britain.
Three. The triumphs of peace and of toil. Four. Aspirations for the future of Australia, that she may be happy, a generous friend, but, if need be, a formidable enemy. One. Ceased is the sound of the chisel, and hushed is the hammer's ring, and the echoes that haunted the empty halls for a while have taken wing, and the doors are open, and overhead are a thousand flags unfurled. While the music and song to the house she has built, Victoria welcomes the world. For the nation she bade with friendly voice have hearkened to her behest, and treasure-laden, o'er land and sea, comes many an honored guest. Daughters of cultured Europe deigning her day to grace, children of Antique Asia, Africa's dusky race, America's mighty offspring, And they of Australia's line, and they of the thousand islands set where Pacific waters shine.
O, never a Roman triumph, nor court of mightiest suzerain, hath gathered such as have sailed to her, nor gifts like to theirs have lain at the feet of wisdom's favoured one, when the princes came from far, and the swarthy queen to the great sea, steered by the light of the still pole-star. Two. Welcome, O fair five sisters, unto your sister's side. Greet we this day together, them who come from far and wide. Come ye, aflame with jewels, and each with veil-led face, whence bright eyes beam upon us like stars from cloud-swept grace. We wonder, O'er the labours your slender hands have done in ancient Asian cities. And thou who once wast pharaohs, and thou whose palm thatched kraals for centuries made marvel of bold da Gama's sails, and all that dwell betwixt you, whate'er your race and name, who seek our shores in kindness, we thank you that you came.
And them who claim the treasures erewhile Pizarro's prize, And her who crowned Braganza, the worthy and the wise, and Canada we welcome, the loyal and the free, and thee, O great Republic, with rule from sea to sea, who braved'st for our lost ones the fatal frozen Maine, thou who hast fed our famished and wept above our slain. Fair France, we greet thee fondly as our crusader sires, thy knightly sons saluted. By acres stubborn spires. O brave in war, none brighter in peaceful arts doth shine. Arachne's fairy fingers are not more deft than thine. And ye, the Goths' twin daughters of stately Maine and speech, Spain and her queenly neighbor, a loving hand to each, long may thy sons be worthy the Sid's illustrious name.
And thine another Lusiad writ on the rolls of fame. Italia, as we greet thee, our hearts are all aglow. What centuries of glory thou knowest and shalt know? Thine are the Roman eagles, the lilies Florentine, the sea-wed city's lion, the church's conquering sign. And Greece we do thee reverence, who, on Olympian seat, art goddess yet? Earth's greatest but learners at Thy feet. Now gladly we receive Thee, within unguarded gate, O upward toiling Russia, whose lamp, though lit but late, already cheered Thy children, what burg-blocked sea is Thine. God grant Thee open water beyond its arctic line. And welcome here, Halvetia, from heights where peace abides. Beyond the wreck-strewn flood-mark of battle's crimson tides, thou pliest, busy-fingered, each harmless handicraft, yet ready in thy quiver there rests the patriot's shaft.
And ye whom frugal Flanders has dowered with all her store, her old cathedral cities, her freedom one of yore, when, by the hands that raised them, Her dykes asunder torn, swift poured the burghers' vengeance for Egmont and for Horn, and thou, whose peerless princess, pure as thy Baltic foam, is dear in ancient Windsor as in her Danish home. For where thy raven reacheth not, thy dove hath found her rest, and in the heart of England hath made herself a nest. Thou, dweller by the Danube, thou keeper of the Rhine, thou blue-eyed Scandinavia with fragrant crown of pine, all, all who followed Odin, the leader and the priest, from bondage and from darkness in some forgotten east, and tilled the trackless forest and tamed the wild North Sea, account us as your kindred, for kin in truth are we.
And now to her we hasten. With daughterly embrace, to whom young isles do homage, and empires old give place. And every zone pays tribute of wealth and earth and wave, the refuge of the alien, the champion of the slave. On triple throne unshaken as adamantine wall, long mayest thou sit, Britannia, dear mother of us all. Three. Mighty ones, who have hither borne your trophies manifold, we honour them, who have earned you these, as we honour your great of old. Every worker with brain or hand, the artist, the artisan, whether he ride at an arm his head, or march in the nameless van. For bright is the ruddy shield of Mars, and sweet is the sun-god's lyre. But labour beareth the world aloft on shoulders that will not tire.
Four. Thou who givest the eye to see, and the ready hand to do, and a nation's place in the earth's fair space, give us thy blessing too. We hear the cool Antarctic winds in the golden wheat-field's pipe, and the chant the swart Kanaka sings where the rustling cane grows ripe. And we ask of thee, who has dowered our land with the kindly sun and soil, Which filled with fruitage of farthest climes the hopeful hands of toil, that ever in love we may nurture, too, the people which dwelt apart when they seek new life from our younger world and a home within our heart. And if, perchance, from the eaves of peace and the sheltering olive bough, our sun shall sail to a stormy sea and the shock of the male-clad prow.
May they show that not in vain they have borne the stress of the tropic day, or lain toil spent in the miner's tent, or made in the wilds away. Australasian, 2nd of October, 1880.
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16 16 - Victoria 1837-1887 1:19
Victoria, 1837–1887 by Mary Hannae Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Daniel Titus. The heralds gave to English air a new un-English name, the standard sword above the roof, the swart guns flowered in flame, and London east and west a watch, saluted as she came, girl queen of immorial race, The heir of Alfred's fame. And will she love like Eleanor, who shared great Edward's throne? Or reign like proud Elizabeth, her country's bride alone? Shall ever blot through her befall, or shade of shame be blown? On England's name to Englishmen, yet dearer than their own? Fair record of the fifty years that she has worn the crown. What royal name in scrawl antique on chartered freight and brown Bears homelier sound to-day than hers, is richer in renown?
What honor needs Victoria now from her dead kin brought down?
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17 17 - Wilhelm II., 1888 2:01
1888 Thy grandsire's sword is thine to-day, Thy noble father's crown unworn, The realm where strong Charlemagne held sway, The name by Barbarossa born. Where toiled these mighty harvesters? What martial fame remains to win? Gleaning perchance of knightly spurs, O heir of many a paladin? Yet need the hope be wholly vain, That heaven no less for thee prepares The call to arms, the grand campaign, The laurel ever green as theirs? Yon sullen ember discontent gleams deadlier than the Gallic brand, the hopeless on the pillars lent, and ruin kissed his beckoning hand. The empire woven of old was knit with hostile tribe and hated clan, and feudal foes the camp-fires lit, and marched as comrades to Sedan.
So, Kaisar, to thy counsels call, The chiefs, bid freedom's friends be thine, Thy trusted allies welcome all, From Thames or Tiber, Seine or Rhine. Then they and thou the war may wage, O son of heroes unafraid, Though hosts invisible engage, And they be legion which invade.
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18 18 - Charles Dickens 1:53
Charles Dickens by Mary Hanay Foote. 1870. Above our dear romancer's dust, grief takes the place of praise, Because of sudden cypress thrust, Amid the aldern bays. Ah, when shall such another friend by England's fireside sit, to tell her of her faults, yet blend sage words with kindly wit? He brings no pageants of the past to while our hearts away, but wins our love for those who cast their lot with ours to-day. He gives us laughter glad and long, he gives us tears as pure, He shames us with the published wrong we meted to the poor. Through webs and dust and weather stains his sun-like genius paints on life's transfigured chancel pains the angels and the saints. He bade us to a lordly feast, and gave us of his best, and vanished, while the mirth increased, to be another's guest.
For death had summoned him in haste, Where hands of the divine Pour out for him who toiled to taste The paradisal wine. While God be thanked, we did not wait His greatness to discern By funeral lights in that too late When ashes fill the urn.
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19 19 - Gordon 1:29
Gordon by Mary Hanny Foote.
January 1885. DEVOTION. When thy name is named, what matchless visions rise? The Hebrew, leaving Pharaoh's house to Israel's rescue, flies. The Moabitess gleams content beneath the burning skies. The flower of Christendom is given to gain the holy grave. O'er Acre and o'er Ascalon, the blest banners wave. By Edward's bed I see thee kneel, O Queen, beloved and brave. Who art thou, girl in warrior garb, St. Catherine's sword in hand? Tis La Pucelle, and France is free. O shame that thou must stand bound, helpless at the cruel stake, to wape the headman's brand. And now upon the wild north sea, from Lindisfarne's bleak shore, To save the lives of shipwrecked men, a maiden plies thee o'er. Seaman and landsmen, honor thee, grace darling, evermore.
And swifter, closer as I amused, the splendid specters loom, and stately stands among them, one to glory passed from gloom, but late by waters of the Nile, in the walls of lost Khartoum.
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20 20 - Tolstoi 1:57
Tolstoy by Mary Hanay Foote.
A shabby volume on the ledge, An idle hand that drew it forth, Like him who slumber in the sedge, There dwelt the prophet of the north. Wayfarer erst with hasty tread, The paths of story wont to trace, What glamour on thy eyes is shed? That fain thou lingerest in the place. Methought the masters all were gone, or quench their fires by age besnowed. Yet now, behold, a light hath shone, once more a message is bestowed. From shores held sterile there hath sailed, a galleon filled with riches freight. O truthful picture slow unveiled, O precious word long untranslate. We gazed, yet scarce might understand. We hearkened to the voice alone. We praised the labor of his hand, and still his heart remained unknown.
We drank with him the joy of spring, in Cossack foray learned to ride. With him we heard the gypsies sing, the cannon by the usine tide. Then, sleepless in the hour when none save human kind unslumbering lie, when stars are pallid and the sun unlit and weaklings faint and die. With sudden skill we read the rune, all tremulous and yet elate. Dread thou no dole, crave thou no boon, be duty unto thee as fate.
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21 21 - Morituri Te Salutant 2:56
Morituri te Salutant by Mary Hannae Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by M. Lee. 1870. The coup d'etat is blotted out with fresher blood with blacker crime, as midnight horrors put to rout the vaguer ghosts of twilight time. Hail, Caesar! Draw the curtains round. In vain that mournful mocking cry pierces the purple with its sound. And they who raise it enter, too, with spectral looks and noiseless dread, unbidden hold their dread review beside the Emperor's very bed. They sought in his deserted tent. They found him in the German camp. They tarry till the oil be spent that feeds his life's poor flickering lamp. The hope of France, the gilded youth, so answering the trumpet's peal, as if revealing how, in sooth, the gilding oft overlays the steel.
Soldiers Algeria's son has spared, heroes from Russia's fire and frost, gray veterans, scarred and scanty-haired. Who wept at word of eagles lost. Workmen who leave the rattling looms to ply perforce a deadlier trade. Students who quit their cloudy room to step within a heavier shade. Slow-breaking hearts that suffer long, blinded and chilled neath love's eclipse, singing no more the happy song by horror frozen on their lips. From castled cities battle-proof, they pressed to the accusing ranks. From cottage walls, from canvas roof, air passing to the Stygian banks. The thousands famine ye- Hail, Caesar, while Napoleon star. From yon horizon beams farewell, setting in exile where afar the children of St.
Louis dwell. Come from the past, once dreaded ghosts, whose number and whose names he knew, the future plants at countless posts, centuries more terrible than you.
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22 22 - Napoleon III. 2:29
Napoleon III by Mare Hanay Foote.
9th January 1873 His silent spirit from the place slid forth unseen, amid the throng, of those whose love outlived disgrace, whose fealty to the last was strong, mid'st homage neath fate's adverse rain. Paid to the star shorn of its rays, how passed the exile, lingering fame, as never once in prouder days? The mother and the child were there, disgrowned and disinherited. No hand henceforth to write the heir, new griefs to bow the golden head. How passed Napoleon, prizing more, old faming camp and council won, Or fearless England's Aegis Ore, the future of her ally's son. Gate of that world we know not yet, What thou beheld'st who may proclaim. Were spirit ranks in order set, Haunting thy portals as he came?
With voices murmuring, our life torch, Unspent, was quenched at his behest. Did bygone princes fill the porch? Bourbon and Valois and the rest. How passed the soldier, cold and stern, Mid weaponless reproachful ghosts, As when he led them forth to learn, How fight the hardy German hosts? How passed the emperor, when they gazed, Once wearers of the ancient crown, As one who knew its luster blazed, The brighter air he laid it down? How past he brighter grows the dream, Past yon accusing spirit-band, Beyond the scornful old regime Another group of watchers stand, Whose hands are stretched to greet him now, That once Charlemagne's proud sceptre won, While haste's Hortense with beaming brow No longer banished from her son.
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23 23 - To The White Julienne 1:23
The White Julienne remains the flower of Marie Antoinette, Alphonse Carr. Again above thy fragile flowers I bend to bring their perfume nigh, for only in the evening hours thy odors pass thy blossoms by. But when the ministering day deserts thee with the warmth and light that lulled thee, waking, thou wilt pay for these in sweetness to the night. O flower of Marie Antoinette, ungrateful to the lavish day, refusing it thy fragrance, yet relenting in such generous way. Perchance, like thee, while life was bright, her soul no holy savour shed, yet scattered incense when grief's night wept dews of blood upon her head. I bend to bring thy perfume near again. I cannot leave the spot. Damp walls and prison gloom are here.
The beauties of the garden plot are gone, save thee, White Julienne, fond-handled by the fated Queen. I hear her sigh above thee, then the centuries tread behind the screen.
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24 24 - To Henry Fifth (Victor Hugo) 2:29
To Henry V by Mary Hannay Foote.
Named King of France, AD 1873. Translated from the French of Victor Hugo.
My youth was passing, sire, Whilst you among the cradle-wrappings slept. My morning song sung o'er your pillow. Winds of heaven have thrown us both since then on heights apart and lone. Heights! For misfortune drear our destined land, so thunder-scarred a-night a heaven must stand. North and south are nearer than our ways are near to one another, and fate lays the purple round you, And has not withheld our France's sceptre, dazzlements of eld. I, crowned with silver hairs, say, praising you, well done, that man is to his manhood true, who bravely, at his own behest, will do high deeds of self-undoing, will forgo all, all, save immemorial honour. Though she seem to earthier eyes a phantom, more will follow her, as erst in Elsinore our faithful heart obeyed the beckoning ghost, nor stooped to buy a kingdom at her cost, that you are aught save honest, none may say.
The lily must be white, all white, for aye, a bourbon can but rain as caput's air. Or waive his kinship. History is aware of wrecks enough, of changing battles din, of those who grandly lose or basely win. Better with honor, prince, the throne to quit, than where St. Louis sat, dishonored sit.
Melbourne, Argus, 1873.
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25 25 - The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar (Heinrich Heine) 3:57
The pilgrimage to Kevlar, by Mary Hanne Foote.
From the German of Heinrich Heine. I. The mother stood at her window, the son on his pillow lay. Arouse ye, arouse ye, Wilhelm, for the pilgrims passed this way. I hear not the holy songs, mother. I see not the banners wave. My heart is like lead within me, for Gretchen is in her grave. No more of the paternoster, no more of the rosary. We will go to God's mother at Kevlar, and thy heart hurt healed shall be. The sacred banners are waving, and the hymn rings clear and high. In Cologne, Cologne of the Rhineland, as the pilgrim hosts goes by. And the mother and son together, in the ranks, are marching now, and their voices are swelling the chorus. Hail Mary, praised be thou. Two. The mother of God at Kevlar, in her richest robes, is dressed.
From the multitude's prayerful clamor, All day she will have no rest. All day, as the sick salute her, their gold and their silver ring, and feet and hands of the snow-white wax to her blessed shrine they bring. And whoso upon the altar a waxen limb doth lay, from his limb of flesh doth our lady take the pain and the ale away. The mother she mouldeth a taper, She mouldeth it to a heart. Now bear it unto God's mother, and sorrow and thou shalt part. The Son with a sigh receives it, with a sigh to Our Lady goes, the tears all sorrowful streaming, as the prayer all sorrowful flows. O merciful One and mighty, and maiden of God for aye, O Mary, Queen of heaven, Before thee my grief I lay. We dwell in Cologne of the Rhineland, my good old mother and I, Cologne of the Thousand Churches, and Gretchen live close by.
And now she is dead, O Mary, and I bring this heart and I vow, if mine thou will heal I will ever say, Hail Mary, praised be thou.
III. The pilgrim son and the mother in their narrow lodgings slept, and the mother of God she entered, with a noiseless foot she stepped. And she bent o'er the broken-hearted with a pitiful, pitiful smile, laying her hand so tender over his heart the while. Even so was vouchsafed the vision, to the mother ere she sprang, From her couch at the watchdog's larum, which loud and untimely rang. And there, in the little chamber, behold, her son lay dead, his face so pallid aforetime, aflush with the morning red. Then his cold, cold hands the mother, folded she knew not how, and as erst devout she murmured, Hail Mary, praised be thou!
December 1885.
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26 26 - The Belated Swallow 1:26
The belated swallow and the birds of the air have nests. Belated swallow wither flying. The day is dead, the light is dying. The night draws near, where's thy nest? Slow put together, soft lined with moss and downy feather, for shelter place in stress of weather and darkness drear. Past, past, above the lighted city. Unknowing of my wondering pity, seaward she flies. Alas, poor bird, what rude awaking has driven thee forth when storms are breaking, in frightened gulls the waves forsaking with warning cries? Alas, my soul, while leaves are greenest, thy heedless head thou fondly screenest beneath thy wing. How bravely thou thy plumage wearest, how lightly thou life's burthen bearest. How happily thy home preparest in careless spring!
Yet days to come an hour may bring thee, When none of all that sing can sing thee to joy or rest. When all the winds that blow shall blow thee, And ere the flood shall overflow thee, The sunlight linger but to show thee thy shattered nest.
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27 27 - Washed Ashore 1:57
Washed Ashore by Mary Hanny Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Taylor D. Have you heard of the fate of the albatross? Of the bird that was washed ashore? And the message to tell of a good ship's loss that around his neck he bore? I have heard of the bird that was washed ashore, of the crew that were cast away, and the crows at rocks and the ocean roar have haunted me all the day. Yet not of the wreck have I mused forlorn, nor the isle in the Indian Sea, and not for the drifting dead I mourn, in the haven where they would be. A speck that seems as it scarce had stirred, a blur on the blue wave's crest, the wide, wide wings of a gallant bird, the gleam of his white, white breast. He was fledged where the sunless oceans flush to the sudden crater glow, and at dead of night the aurora's blush.
Comes back from the polar snow. No smoke of the city had smirched his wings. No young of the flock he stole. No nest of his to the rafters clings. Of the fields he took no toll. O spirit, heedless of wealth and state, one hour was thy star a-shine, when by nature's side thou didst walk alate, with thy first love's hand in thine. How was it, O bird? When thy bosom warm neath an icy grip grew chill, and the wings were furled that defied the storm, and the fluttering heart grew still. Could the far Antarctic lights illum the blackness of sky and sea, when fate held thee helpless amid the gloom that rose twixt thy past and thee?
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28 28 - In The South Pacific 1:38
In the South Pacific by Mary Hannae Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Taylor D. A vision of a savage land, a glimpse of cloud-ringed seas, a moonlit deck, a murderous hand. No more. No more of these. No more. How heals the tender flesh once torn by savage beast? The wound reopening bleeds afresh, each season at the least. O day for dawn of thee, how prayed the spirit, sore distressed, thy latest beams upslanting made a pathway for the blessed. And robes new dawned of the redeemed gleamed white past grief's dark pall. So this, a day of death which seemed, a birthday let us call. Remembering such day as this, a soul from flesh was shriven. By death, God's messenger of bliss, a spirit entered heaven.
Thy dying head, no loving breast. Upheld, O early slain.
Thy dying head, no loving breast, Upheld, O early slain. But soon, mid welcoming saints, t'was pressed, Where God's own child has lain. Though none at death broke bread for thee, Or poured the sacred wine, Thou, nourished at his board, dost see The substance of the sign. We mourned thee, heavens new-born and rich past all our prayers could claim, secure in blessedness of which we have not learnt the name.
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29 29 - No Message 1:51
No Message by Mary N. A. Foote.
She heard the story of the end, each message too she heard, and there was one for every friend, for her alone no word. And shall she bear a heavier heart, and deem his love was fled, because his soul from earth could part, leaving her name unsaid? No, no, though neither sign nor sound, a parting thought expressed, not heedless past the homeward bound, of her he loved the best. Of voyage perils bravely born, he would not tell the tale, of shattered planks and canvas torn, and war with wind and gale. He waited till the lighthouse star should rise against the sky, and from the mainland, looming far, the forest scents blow by.
He hoped to tell, assurance sweet, that pain and grief were o'er. What blessings haste the soul to meet, ere yet within the door. Then one farewell he thought to speak, when all the rest were past. As in the parting hour we seek the dearest hand the last. And while, for this delaying but, to see heaven's opening gate, lo, it received him, and was shut, ere he could say, I wait.
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30 30 - Christmas Day 1:19
Christmas Day by Manny Hainey Foote.
O happy day, with sevenfold blessings set, Amid thy hallowed hours, the memories dear of childhood's holidays, and household cheer, When friends and kin in loving circle met, And youth-glied gatherings where the sands were wet. By waves that hurt not, whilst the great cliffs near, with storms erewhile acquaint, gave echo clear, of voices gay and laughter gayer yet.
And graver thoughts and holier arise, of how, twixt that first eve and dawn of thine, the star ascended, which hath lit our skies, more than the sun himself, And mid the kine. The child was born, whom shepherds and the wise, who came from far, and angels called divine.
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31 31 - The New Year 1:31
The New Year by Mary Henne Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by AMB Suite 13. With supple boughs and newborn leaflets crowned, Rejoicing in fresh verdure stands the tree. Though weather scarred and scooped by fire may be, Its ancient trunk So may our lives be found, God leaving still our roots within His ground. Where gaps have lost, and wastes show brokenly, may each new year that comes to greet us see. Branches, and foliage, and flowers abound, where fortune, spoiling wayfarer, hath left unsightly rents. May garlands spring apace. And if, perchance, some pitiless wind hath reft, away what newer green shall never replace. May heaven light come the closer for the cleft, over which no tender fronds shall interlace.
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32 32 - Watch-Night 2:00
Watch Night by Mary Hanna Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Jay Wright. Watch Night. Midnight musical and splendid, and the old year's life is ended, and the new, born in the purple babe yet crowned, among us dwells, while creation's welcome swells, starlight all the heavens pervading, and the whole world serenading him at birth with all its bells. Round the cradle of the tender flows the music, Shines the splendor. It is early yet for counsel. But bethink how Hermes gave, while the myths were bright and brave, thwarted Phoebus no small battle, seeking back his lifted cattle, our old Hermes in his cave. New year, if thy youth should blind us, thy swift feet perchance may find us sleeping in the dark, unguarded, as the sun-god's herds were found.
Lest unready on his round we be hurried, World, take warning, that already it is morning, and a giant is unbound. Idle-handed yet, but willing, let us ponder ere the filling of his empty, eager fingers with our heedless hot behest. Be our failures, Frank confessed, mid the gush of gladsome greeting, requiem in our hearts repeating for the years that died unblessed. How they came to us, so precious. Have abode with us, so gracious, blindly doing all our bidding. Stronger, swifter than we thought. Like the sprites by magic brought, shaping dream to action for us. Till we stood beset with sorrows, wondering what ourselves had wrought. Ere the tightening of the tether blind this year and us together.
Let us pause a while and ponder. Whither tend we side by side? He who gallops, we who guide. Once we start, like lost Lenore sung in Bjorger's ballad story. Fast as Odin's hunt, we ride.
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33 33 - David's Lament for Jonathan 2:19
David's Lament for Jonathan by Mary Henney Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Jay Wright. David's Lament for Jonathan. Thou wast hard pressed, yet God concealed this thing from me, and thou wast wounded very sore and beaten down, O son of Israel's king, like wheat on threshing floor. Thou that from courtly and from wise for friend didst choose me, and in spite of ban and sneer, rebuke and ridicule, until the end didst ever hold me dear. All night thy body on the mountain lay, that morn the heathen nailed thee to their wall. Surely their deaf gods hear the songs to-day o'er the slain house of Saul. Oh, if that witch were here thy father sought, methinks I e'en could call thee from thy place. To shift thy mangled image from my thought, Seeing thy soul's calm face.
I sorrowed for the words the prophet spoke, That set me rival to thy father's line, But o'er thy spirit no repining broke, For what had else been thine? Thou wast not like to me, so rude, so hot. The world was not in thine as in my sight, Like the proud giant who from Israel sought A champion to fight. I thought to ask, nor looked to be denied of God. That in my days there might ascend his house, Not from my hands so readily dyed, But thine pure-hearted friend. My friend, within God's house thou dwellest now. Thy wounds are healed. Thou need'st no Gilead balm, Defeated and degraded, Yet thy brow is crowned with death and calm. O God, this is thy black and bitter sea, Which buffets so and blinds my struggling soul.
Out of the depths I cry, O God, to thee, whose grief waves o'er me roll. God give to me the spirit that was his, the patience that he needs no more, to blend with the wild eagerness that mars my bliss. I would be like my friend. Through the dark valley soon, to where he stands, God summoned me. Till then the sword shall shine that comes from his dead grasp into my hands. His children be as mine.
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34 34 - At The Fords of Jordan 3:46
At the Fords of Jordan by Mary Hanny Foote. The parting of King David and Barzillai the Galeidite after the revolt of Absalom. A little way farther to guide thee I go, where the footing is firm and the waters are low. Then we part, O my King, thou once more to thy throne, I to dwell in the house of my fathers. Alone. Yet think not, O David, one pang of regret would tempt the recall of the youth I have set in thy presence, the strong-armed, the true-hearted one, last gift of my loyalty, even my son. E'er my hand to the husbandman's toil had been trained, or my foot to the slow-moving flocks had been chained, I, too, would have marched in the long line of spears with the youthful, the courtly, the brave for my peers.
The days when I dreamt but of battle, the lamp which all night I kept burning, that if from the camp one straggler should come, I might hang up his sword and hearken how prospered the cause of the Lord. How my heart used to beat! How my veins used to thrill from freezing to fever, from fever to chill, when the voice of the Philistine rang through Arcos, defying, unanswered, the Lord God of hosts. How I prayed day and night, I with many a tear, Lord, shorten the time till thy champion appear. And if fearing or hoping myself to change blows with the giant, God-bidden, I know. And God knows. Ah, it was not for gain, and it was not for fear that I wore not the warrior's glittering gear. My father, my mother—the heart-strife was done, for Saul had his thousands, and they had but one.
I am old, but, King David, I cannot forget my hot-hearted youth. So my boy shall not fret mid the safety and sameness of flocks and of fields, while the soldiers of Israel burnish their shields. The Lord be thy keeper, henceforth for aye, my son whom I love. And when I am away, be thy spirit as now, pure and lofty and bold, thy strength still unwasted, thy heart never cold. When thy soul with the minions of darkness must fight, The great king, lend thee weapons and armor of light. No hindrance are they, like the harness of Saul to the boy from the folds. Mayest thou bear them through all? All blessings be thine, which the promise foretells, and, O, when the heart of thy eldest-born swells at the stories of many a soldierly deed, tell how one, not a soldier, served Israel in need.
The men are fast forming again into rank. The river is forded. We part on the bank. Haste where welcome awaiteth thee, David, this day, for the joy of the people ill beareth delay. The Lord give thy children the love-guarded crown, when the king and his servant in dust have lain down. Till the hope of the nations thy lineage shall close, God's arrows be sharp in the hearts of thy foes.
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35 35 - The Magi to the Star 2:50
The Magi to the Star. 1. Thanksgiving. Star, on thy heaven returning way, Our message of thanksgiving bear, To him who answered with thy ray, The priestless gentile's trembling prayer. When songs of revel shook the roof, God, thou didst cheer the joyless course, Where we, like Vashti, walked aloof, braving the world's unjust divorce. How rate we now all griefs and scorn that filled our youth with bitterness? We had not known the Christ is born, but that we sought for one to bless.
Two. Prayer. Fence thou thy child, O merciful, when hate shall cavil at his worth, when underlings like hamen rule, Hold thou the golden sceptre forth. When envy round thy precious One, its tongues of scorching flame hath curled, unwasted let his virtue run from the sore furnace of the world. To fill a new colossus mould, when tireless unbelief hath sent, thy truest image to the cold, pure mountain-tops of banishment. Give then, O God, thy light to break through all earth's valleys cramped and dim, That after times may see and take Their hero's measurement from him. 3. Farewell. A new horizon's dim blue ring Around our watch-fire shall be cast. New stars replace the vanishing. A new horizon's dim blue ring Around our watch-fire shall be cast.
New stars replace the vanishing. Tomorrow's homeward travel past. Word-bringer, now thine embassy is closed. Thou stayest not to fill. A lowlier office thou shalt be, soon mid the angels, shining still. One priceless pearl of upper sea, one matchless gem of heaven's rich mine, within the place once held by thee, God send no afterlight to shine. Yet foremost of the host of gold, long followed, thou wast never sent. A glimpse of what the heavens enfold, To darken earth with discontent. Star of the promised, streaming on, Through time's long night, thou thou must set, Thy light shall spread, when thou art gone, O'er sunless lands we see not yet.
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36 36 - To The Virgin Mary 3:06
To the Virgin Mary by Mary Henne Foote. Read for LibriVox.org. Recorded by Jessica West. To the Virgin Mary. Mother of Him we call the Christ, no hail around thy brows we paint. Instance in prayer we offer not, nor mind the title be a saint. And yet no woman's name, of all with honor from the ages sent. Mary is orioled like thine, with love and grief and glory blent. O wisely was it that he chose, who the unwritten future reads, to teach the after-world through thee what cherisher's Messiah needs. Thou heardst the angel's prophecy, the tidings which the shepherds brought, Anna and Simon praising God, and sawst that star the wise men sought. Ah, of us who could bear, like thee, with meekness God's triumphal light, then still believing with his charge.
At midnight take an exile's flight. Throughout the sun's long helplessness, his good was to thine own preferred. May we so serve and still like thee, stand back to let his voice be heard. Dispenser wants of earthly things, thy best, beloved, thou didst see. God's hands for others, blessings full. Could we be poor and glad like thee? Soul pierced with sword-like agony, not felon's taunt nor soldier's jest. The Lord, beside the God-forsaken cross, could drive thee from it like the rest. Christ's banner thou alone didst hold, in face of all his foes displayed, valiant through all defeat and but, heart-stricken that he was. Ah, Mary, could we stand like Thee, steadfast and watch the vow depart, and grieve for their defection less than for the Savior's wounded heart?
How must Thy God, who favors set, On David once and King Lee saw, and yet foresaw their wanderings, and loved them through and after all. How must he seal the prophecy, declaring thee forever blessed, whose whole life showed thy worthiness of that pure child thine arms had pressed. O single-hearted one to kiss the lifeless and dishonored head, fondly as when its baby brow by angels' wings was canopied. O self-forgetful to rejoice. For that heaven's entrance had been found, by the beloved thou content, thenceforth alone to close life's round. In the bright future, sure, through far, again as once the wide air rings, with praise to Christ thy vigilance, meek daughter of a hundred kings. Virgin, may we partake thy joy, when heaven and loyal are chalet, at the pierced feet of David's son, a crown he will not put away.
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37 37 - The Australiad 10:33
The Australiad by Mary Hannae Foote. T'was brave De Quiro bent the knee before the king of Spain. And, sire, he said, I bring thy ships in safety home again, From seas unsailed of mariner in all the days of yore, Where reefs and islets insect-built arise from ocean's floor. And, sire, the land we sought is found, Its coast lay full in view. When homeward bound, perforce I sailed at the bidding of my crew. Terra Australis, called I it, and link therewith the name, of him who guideth as of old in cloud and starry flame. And grant me ships again, he said, and southward let me go. A new Peru may wait thee there, another Mexico. A threadbare suitor, year by year, there is a land, said he. While king and court grew wary of this old man the sea, for there were heretics to burn, and Holland to subdue, and England to be humbled, which this day remains to do.
O land he named, but never saw, his memory revere, the gallant disappointed heart let him be honored here. Meanwhile the hardy Dutchman came, as ancient charts attest, Hartog and Newtz and Carpenter, and Tasman and the rest, but found not forests rich in spice, nor market for their wares, nor servile tribes to toil or tast mid pestilential airs, and deemed it scarce worth while to claim so poor a continent, but with their slumberous tropic isles thenceforward were content. And then came Dampierre, who, erewhile upon the Spanish main, for silver-laden galleons lurked, and great was his disdain, Good ships, beside, from France were sent, good ships and gallant crews, with Marion and D'antracasto and the far-famed La Perue.
And still, of all who sought or saw, the voyages were vain. Australia ne'er was farm for boars, nor mission field for Spain, nor fleur-de-lise, nor tricolor was ever planted here, and Britain's flag to hoist was not for hands of buccaneer. But to our lovely eastern coast, led by auspicious stars, came Cook in the endeavor, with his little band of tars, who straight on shores of botany old England's ensign reared, with mighty din of musketry and noise of them that cheered, and none of all his noble fleets, whose sixty years was king, a prize so goodly ever brought as that small ship did bring. And who was he? The first to find Australia passing fair, one who aforetime well had served his country otherwhere, who to the heights of Abraham up the swift St.
Lawrence led, when on the moonless battle eve the midnight oarsman sped. No worthier captain British deck before or since hath trod. He never feared the face of man, but feared always his God. His crew he cherished tenderly, and kept his honor bright. For with the helpless blacks he dealt as if they had been white, a boy erewhile of lowly birth, self-taught, a poor man's son, but a hero and a gentleman, if ever there was one. And when at last, by savage hands, on wild O'ahi slain, he left a deathless memory, a name without a stain. "'Tis but a hundred years ago, as nearly as may be, Since good King George's vessel, first anchored in botany. A hundred years! Yet, oh, how many changes there have been!
Unclasp thy volume, history, and say what thou hast seen. Old England and her colonies stand face to face as foes, and now their orators inveigh, and now their armies close. In vain our motherland, for once thy sword is drawn in vain, Allies and enemies alike, thy children are the slain. Though save as victor, never twas thy wont to quit the field, relenting filled thy valiant heart, and thou wast fain to yield. Ah, well for the loss of those fair states might king and commons mourn! There lay in sooth a goodly bough from England's rose-tree torn. But now how deep its roots have struck, how stately stands the stem! How lovely on its branches leaf and flower and dewy gem! New life from that sore severance to our sister's scion came.
God speed thee, young America, we glory in thy fame. The storm that shook the western world now eastward breaks anew. And, oh, how black the tempest is which blotteth out the blue! And over thee, ill-fortuned France, what floods resistless roll! A tidal wave of blood no pitying planet may control. Like Samson toiling blind and bound to furnish food for those who light withheld and liberty, and mocked at all his woes. So have thy people held their peace, so labored, so have borne. The burden serfdom ever bears, the sorrow and the scorn. But as with groping giant hands he seized the pillars twain, and made Philista's land one house of mourning for the slain. So rise they, frenzied at the last by centuries of wrong, and reek of vengeance dreadful as their sufferings have been long.
The vile Bastille is overthrown, the monarchy lies low, the fetters of the feudal age are broken at a blow. Of Poland parted for a prey dire nemesis shall tell, when o'er the dead in Krakow's vault shall ring oppression's knell. Now Erin from her sister-isle a while was fain to part, for Strongbow's arrow rankled long within her wounded heart, and long by desecrated fane and fireless hearth she wailed, where brutal Ayrton's herried host their murderous pikes had trailed. Here shine the names she holdeth dear, and prize them while she may, past soldiers of a Frankish prince, or peers of Castlereagh, the gifted ones who pled for her against bigotry and pride, the gallant ones who died for her when young Fitzgerald died.
Enough, enough, forbear to trace the record of the age where elder nations are inscribed through each distressful page. But hearken how, for once at least, without an army's aid, a people's lines, the lines of her who holds the south, were laid. Five thousand leagues of ocean twixt the old home and the new, and lodging straight and scanty fare the weary voyage through, and toil and hardship safely passed and crossed the perilous main, never to tread on English ground mid English friends again. Yet men were found to dare it all, men, aye, and women too, not only those exiled perforce, who ofttimes rose anew, outcast upon new earth, with hope and heart and vigor given, by fresh surroundings, and his grace who bids the lost to heaven.
The brave, the fair, the gently born, and labor's lifelong thrall, Within those circling seas of ours there was a place for all. For patient hands the woods to fell, the new-form fields to till, the huts to build, the scanty flocks, and herds to guard from ill. For bolder spirits to forsake the seaboard settlement, and learn the secret of the land where never white men went. Through mountain paths and forests dark, and wide unsheltered plain, Through fiery heat of summer, and through frost and flood and rain. Unheating thirst or hunger, or the shower of savage spears. What soldiers e'er were braver than Australian pioneers? What though it was by axe and plough and miners off edge tool? And tending sheep and kine through weary years of hardship full?
The only victories we boast were by our fathers won. The men who won them had prevailed where feats of arms were done. Three generations born of her, our country now can tell, and son and sire and grandsire all in turn have served her well. Not only with the sinewy arm, the hardened hand of toil, that wrest their wealth from rifted rock and forest-cumbered soil, by love of order and of law, by proffered boon to all, Of learning, in the townships' school and in the college hall, by liberal leisure well bestowed for sports of land and wave, and by the faith preserved to us God to the elders gave. And now Britannia's household sent her greetings from beside, the icy streams of Canada and islands scattered wide, betwixt the two Americas, from Africa's sea-marge, And where the race of Arangzeb held empire rich and large, and where amid New Zealand fern the English skylarks build, and rosy children's sunburnt hands with English flowers are filled.
And from our own Australia too, and all unite to say, Bind us to thee with stronger bonds than those we own to-day. Give to our sons a place with thine, for each to each is peer. And let them share thy counsels and the dangers that endear. And what the olden realm has been, the newer realm shall be, with a place in every free man's heart and a port in every sea.
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38 38 - The Lifeboat of Dieppe 2:49
The Lifeboat of Dieppe Peace hath her victories no less than war.
A foggy day in the Dover Strait, Two ships on the misty main, A crash, then a pitiful, pitiful cry From the shattered, sinking twain. One boat alone from the davits cut by a fair-haired boy swung free of the whirlpool that sucked the swimmers down, and a while she stood to sea. Then swift ere the surge had ceased to swell, or the good ships gulfed below, she sped to the help of the perishing as fast as the boy could row. Ebb-tide at morn on the coast of France, Like a mill-race the channel ran, and there gazed a seaward from Gay Dieppe, a grey-haired fisherman. "'A boat!' he shouted, "'an English boat! Look, look! She is swept to sea! Loaded down to the water's edge, haste, haste, to her help with me!' They rallied round him, a gallant crew, and the ready life-boat bore, but the good old mare stayed their march.
"'Twer vain on you's sea-lish shore. One way I wote of, the docks are full, though the harbour rocks lie bare. I will open the flood-gates for her, men. Will you launch the life-boat there? I give no order, you know the risk, but the boat may live, and then he gazed on their faces, and they on his, while one might perhaps count ten." Then, with never a word, they ran the boat to the great dock's tideless brim, and they sprang to their places and grasped their oars, and the shore and the sky grew dim. For the sweep of a torrent bore them now, with a force that none might stay, away from the waters that line the pier, from the harbour-bounds away. Out, out to the channel, and there afar, Were those they had vowed to save, Aureless and spent on the racing tide, They sped to the western wave.
Soon, soon, the ghost of an English cheer Embrace as of brothers born. T'was told in Paris that selfsame night, In London at early morn.
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39 39 - The Old Pony's Christmas 1:43
The Old Pony's Christmas by Mary Henné Foote. Read for LibriVox.org by Daniel Titus.
Just look where they've put me. There's grass to the knee, the juiciest of saltbush, the shadiest tree, and they fenced off this pocket on purpose for me. Last night, Frank, my old master, rode down on Kildare. When I looked in his face, I knew mischief was there. And a flower bag he tied to my tree, I declare. My little new master came early today. He is Frank, rising four, and his hair is like hay, and he does love to order, but I don't obey. He came in the buggy, my mistress as well, a lightweight. I love her. Her name was once Nell, but now tis Mama. Why, I never could tell. My old Frank, now Papa, drove them down with the bays, and this family of mine really have such nice ways. They brought me the loveliest bundle of maize.
I grew it myself, O Grey Dolo, for you," said small Frank, but Mama often watered it, too, and we wish Merry Christmas, and how do you do? Then he peeped in my stocking and soon dragged to light the grandest new bridle. His face was a sight. O dolo, he cried. Santa Claus came last night.
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40 40 - The Clever Cat 2:08
The Clever Cat by Mary Hennay Foote.
There was a cat called William, the poorest ever seen. He would not go on mousing. He played the tambourine. His family would not feed him, this lazy little cat, but out of doors they turned him. There seemed no way but that. So on and on he wandered, till he to Catland came, and there he met a princess. Felina was her name. She had the loveliest whiskers, her eyes were emerald green. She fell in love with William, all for his tambourine. For her delight was dancing, and there was none to play. Strike up, she straight commanded, when William came that way. All day she danced. At sunset, poor William at her feet, fell down and said, Pray may I have something now to eat? To eat? Of course! What ho there!
Felina had no bell, but when she called her servants, her sweet voice did as well. Then tortoise shells and tabbies tripped over each other's tails, all scurrying from the kitchen with cream cakes and stewed snails. Now after this they brought him six dinners every day, and Mouse was never mentioned. His brothers came to stay, for they had heard of Catland, where William's word was law, and by and by Felina bestowed on him her paw. There is a cat called William, the fattest ever seen. He need not go on mousing. He plays the tambourine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Warner Lee and Other Poems by Mary Hanay Foote.