<h2> Black Swans </h2>
<p>As I lie at rest on a patch of clover<br/>
In the Western Park when the day is done,<br/>
I watch as the wild black swans fly over<br/>
With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun;<br/>
And I hear the clang of their leader crying<br/>
To a lagging mate in the rearward flying,<br/>
And they fade away in the darkness dying,<br/>
Where the stars are mustering one by one.<br/>
<br/>
Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder<br/>
For a while to join in your westward flight,<br/>
With the stars above and the dim earth under,<br/>
Through the cooling air of the glorious night.<br/>
As we swept along on our pinions winging,<br/>
We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing,<br/>
Or the distant note of a torrent singing,<br/>
Or the far-off flash of a station light.<br/>
<br/>
From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes,<br/>
Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze,<br/>
Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes<br/>
Make music sweet in the jungle maze,<br/>
They will hold their course to the westward ever,<br/>
Till they reach the banks of the old grey river,<br/>
Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver<br/>
In the burning heat of the summer days.<br/>
<br/>
Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting<br/>
To the folk that live in that western land?<br/>
Then for every sweep of your pinions beating,<br/>
Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band,<br/>
To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting<br/>
With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting,<br/>
Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting,<br/>
When once to the work they have put their hand.<br/>
<br/>
Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted,<br/>
What does it matter for rain or shine,<br/>
For the hopes deferred and the gain departed?<br/>
Nothing could conquer that heart of thine.<br/>
And thy health and strength are beyond confessing<br/>
As the only joys that are worth possessing.<br/>
May the days to come be as rich in blessing<br/>
As the days we spent in the auld lang syne.<br/>
<br/>
I would fain go back to the old grey river,<br/>
To the old bush days when our hearts were light,<br/>
But, alas! those days they have fled for ever,<br/>
They are like the swans that have swept from sight.<br/>
And I know full well that the strangers' faces<br/>
Would meet us now in our dearest places;<br/>
For our day is dead and has left no traces<br/>
But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.<br/>
<br/>
There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken —<br/>
We would grieve for them with a bitter pain,<br/>
If the past could live and the dead could quicken,<br/>
We then might turn to that life again.<br/>
But on lonely nights we would hear them calling,<br/>
We should hear their steps on the pathways falling,<br/>
We should loathe the life with a hate appalling<br/>
In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.<br/>
<br/>
. . . . .<br/>
<br/>
In the silent park is a scent of clover,<br/>
And the distant roar of the town is dead,<br/>
And I hear once more as the swans fly over<br/>
Their far-off clamour from overhead.<br/>
They are flying west, by their instinct guided,<br/>
And for man likewise is his fate decided,<br/>
And griefs apportioned and joys divided<br/>
By a mighty power with a purpose dread.<br/></p>
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