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!
I'll bear thee on as I have borne
With stealthy steps wind-fleet,
But the dark night shrouds the forest,
And thorns are in my feet.

O moan not! I would give this braid —

Thy father's gift to me

But for a single palmful
Of water now for thee.

Ah! spring not to his name
To glad us may he come-
He is smoldering into ashes

Beneath the blasted gum:

no more

All charred and blasted by the fire
The white man kindled there,
And fed with our slaughtered kindred
Till heaven-high went its glare!

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 should 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.

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
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the

same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bid'st me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. ]
I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian revery,
A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou
wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, Life's journey just be-
gun?

Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a
kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers - Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

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;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er for-
got.

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,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our

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,
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed
here,

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore
the hours

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,)