AN ABORIGINAL MOTHER'S LAMENT STILL farther would I fly, my child, With his dread hand murder-wet! O moan not! I would give this braid — Thy father's gift to me But for a single palmful Ah! spring not to his name Beneath the blasted gum: no more All charred and blasted by the fire And but for thee, I would their fire Had eaten me as fast! Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry But no-when his bound hands had signed On the roaring pyre flung bleeding – No more shall his loud tomahawk O moan not! I would give this braid Thy father's gift to me For but a single palmful Of water now for thee. Charles Harpur LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine,thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, But gladly, as the precept were her own; Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu. But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting words shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my con cern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid, All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humor interposed too often makes, Could Time, his flight reversed, restore When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) |