Round the steadfast crags of Coogee, dim with drifts of driving sleet:

Hearing hollow mournful noises sweeping down a solemn shore

While the grim sea-caves are tideless and the storm strives at their core.

Often when the floating vapors fill the silent autumn leas,

Dreamy memories fall like moonlight over silver, sleeping

seas,

Youth and I and Love together!- other times and other themes

Come to me unsung, unwept for, through the faded evening gleams;

Come to me and touch me mutely, I that looked and longed so well,

Shall I look and yet forget them? who may know or who foretell?

Though the southern wind roams, shadowed with its immemorial grief,

Where the frosty wings of winter leave their whiteness on the leaf?

Friend of mine beyond the waters, here and there these perished days

Haunt me with their sweet dead faces and their old

divided ways.

You that helped and you that loved me, take this song, and when you read

Let the lost things come about you, set your thoughts and hear and heed:

Time has laid his burden on us: we who wear our manhood now,

We would be the boys we have been, free of heart and bright of brow,

Be the boys for just an hour, with the splendor and the speech

Of thy lights and thunders, Coogee, flying up thy gleaming beach!

Heart's desire and heart's division! who would come and say to me

With the eyes of far-off friendship, "You are as you used to be"?

Something glad and good has left me here with sickening discontent,

Tired of looking, neither knowing what it was

where it went.

or

So it is this sight of Coogee, shining in the morning'

dew,

Sets me stumbling through dim summers once on fire with youth and you.

Summers pale as southern evenings when the year has lost its power,

And the wasted face of April weeps above the withered flower.

Not that seasons bring no solace, not that time lacks light and rest;

But the old things were the dearest, and the old loves seem the best.

We that start at songs familiar, we that tremble at a

tone,

Floating down the ways of music, like a sigh of sweet

ness flown,

We can never feel the freshness, never find again the mood

Left amongst fair-featured places brightened of our brotherhood;

This, and this, we have to think of, when the night is over all,

And the woods begin to perish, and the rains begin

to fall.

Henry Kendall.

Euroma.

AT EUROMA.

HEY built his mound of the rough red ground,

THEY

By the dip of a desert dell,

Where all things sweet are killed by the heat,

And scattered o'er flat and fell.

In a burning zone they left him alone,
Past the uttermost western plain;

And the nightfall dim heard his funeral hymn
In the voices of wind and rain.

The songs austere of the forests drear,

And the echoes of clift and cave,

When the dark is keen where the storm hath been,

Fleet over the far-away grave.

And through the days when the torrid rays

Strike down on a coppery gloom,

Some spirit grieves in the perished leaves
Whose theme is that desolate tomb.

No human foot, or paw of brute,
Halts now where the stranger sleeps;
But cloud and star his fellows are,
And the rain that sobs and weeps.
The dingo yells by the far iron fells,
The plover is loud in the range,

But they never come near to the slumberer here,
Whose rest is a rest without change.

Ah! in his life, had he mother or wife,

To wait for his step on the floor?

Did Beauty wax dim while watching for him

Who passed through the threshold no more? Doth it trouble his head? He is one with the dead; He lies by the alien streams;

And sweeter than sleep is death that is deep
And unvexed by the lordship of dreams.

Henry Kendall.

A

Illa Creek.

ILLA CREEK.

STRONG sca-wind flies up and sings
Across the blown-wet border,

Whose stormy echo runs and rings

Like bells in wild disorder.

Fierce breath hath vext the foreland's face,
It glistens, glooms, and glistens;
But deep within this quiet place
Sweet Illa lies and listens.

Sweet Illa of the shining sands,
She sleeps in shady hollows
Where August flits with flowerful hands

And silver Summer follows.

Far up the naked hills is heard
A noise of many waters;
But green-haired Illa lies unstirred
Amongst her star-like daughters.
The tempest pent in moaning ways
Awakes the shepherd yonder;
But Illa dreams, unknown to days
Whose wings are wind and thunder.

Here fairy hands and floral feet

Are brought by bright October;

Here stained with grapes, and smit with heat,
Comes Autumn sweet and sober.

Here lovers rest, what time the red
And yellow colors mingle,

And daylight droops with dying head
Beyond the western dingle.

And here, from month to month, the time
Is kissed by Peace and Pleasure,

While Nature sings her woodland rhyme

And hoards her woodland treasure.

*

*

*

Henry Kendall.