“From this death-strife of brothers Comes the tyranny of One. That’s _your_ sort. But we others, _We prefer our own_!”
FROM A VERANDAH. (_Sydney_.) “_Armageddon_.”
O city lapped in sun and Sabbath rest, With happy face of plenteous ease possessed, Have you no doubts that whisper, dreams that moan Disquietude, to stir your slumbering breast?
Think you the sins of other climes are gone? The harlot’s curse rings in your streets—the groan Of out-worn men, the stabbed and plundered slaves Of ever-growing Greed, these are your own!
O’er you shall sweep the fiery hell that craves For quenchment the bright blood of human waves: For you, if you repent not, shall atone For Greed’s dark death-holes with War’s swarming graves!
Little elfin maid, Old, though scarce two years, With your big dark hazel eyes Tenderer than tears,
And your rosebud mouth Lisping jocund things, Breaking brooding silence with Wistful questionings!
Like a flower you grew While life’s bright sun shone. Does the greedy spendthrift earth Heed a flower is gone?
No; but Love’s fond ken, That gropes through Death’s strange ways, Almost seems to hear your Voice, Seems to see your Face!
“NATIONALISM AND M‘ILWRAITH!” THE QUEENSLAND ELECTIONS CRY, 1888.
Australia listened! Through the brawling game Of played-out rascals gambling for her gold, The rotten-hearted traitors who had sold For flimsy English gauds her righteous fame— Through the foul hubbub, it did seem, there came The still small voice of nobler things untold. But now, but now with wonder manifold She hears a voice that calls her by her name!
Australia listens, as the mother wilt To hear her first-born cry. “Say, is it death, Or life and all life’s hope made audible That thrills my heart and gives my spirit faith?” From out the gathering war-hosts leaps forth shrill The double cry, “_Australia_, _M‘Ilwraith_!”
The dawn is breaking northward! Rise, O Sun, Australian Liberty, and give us light! And thou who through the dark and doubtful night With great clear eyes of patience looking on Even to that splendid hour REPUBLICAN, O know what things are with thee in the fight— What hope and trust, what truth, what right, what might To never leave this work till it be done! Not as these others were, the helpless slaves Of each diurnal need and cringing debt, Australia’s statesman, have we known thee yet!— The world’s great heroes call from a thousand graves: “_Thy land_, _a nation_, _cries to thee to be set_ _Free as the freedom of her ocean waves_!”