George Essex Evans: Всі вірші поета

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Brunton Stephens

The gentle heart that hated wrong,

The courage that all ills withstood,

The seeing eye, the mighty song

That stirred us into Nationhood,

Have passed. What garlands can be spread?

The Prince of Courtesy is dead.

The power that touched all human chords

With wit that lightened thro’ the years

by George Essex Evans

Loraine

This is the story of one man’s soul.

The paths are stony and passion is blind,

And feet must bleed ere the light we find.

The cypher is writ on Life’s mighty scroll,

And the key is in each man’s mind.

But who read aright, ye have won release,

Ye have touched the joy in the heart of Peace.

PART I

by George Essex Evans

Altiora Peto

O for a vision of the perfect light

To shame the splendour of the morning star!

O for a breath from out the Infinite

Where the great heart of Being throbs afar!

O for that sound, too fine for mortal ears,

The music of the silence of the spheres!

The Masters fathomed not that song sublime,

Tho’ oft on straining ear and brain o’erwrought,

by George Essex Evans

Adrift: A Brisbane River Reverie

An amphitheatre of purple hills

And emerald slopes where nestling villas gleam,

Flooded with golden light that crowns and fills

Height, vale, and stream.

The clouds float motionless like isles of snow

Set in the sapphire of the summer sky,

The river, like a ribbon, far below

Winds rippling by;

by George Essex Evans

Auri Sacra Fames

Now that the gods are dead—where shall we find us a god?

Myths of the Greek Olympus have sunk in the surge of Time;

And Jehovah, the God of Wrath, who stayed the sun at His nod;

And Jesus, the Nazarene, preaching a dream sublime.

Worship and form may live, practice and faith have fled.

Where shall we find us a god—now that the gods are dead?

What of the Old exists but feels the touch of the New?

Thousands of voices shout: where is the voice that leads?

by George Essex Evans

To The Irish Dead

’TIS a green isle set in a silver water,

A fairy isle where the shamrock grows.

Land of Legend, the Dream-Queen’s daughter—

Out of the Fairies’ hands She rose.

They touched Her harp with a tender sighing,

A spirit-song from a world afar,

They touched Her heart with a fire undying

To fight and follow Her battle-star.

by George Essex Evans

A Grave By The Sea

No white cloud sails the lonely sky,

Thro’ the gaunt trees no breezes sigh,

Thro’ the lush grass no fall of feet;

No song of bird in all the land,

But, floating faintly, dreamily,

The distant dirge of waves that beat

In discontent upon the sand.

Here, where all Nature seems aswoon,

by George Essex Evans

A Nocturne

Like weary sea-birds spent with flight

And faltering,

The slow hours beat across the night

On leaden wing.

The wild bird knows where rest shall be

Soe'er he roam.

Heart of my heart! apart from thee

I have no home.

by George Essex Evans

Cymru

Dim in the mist of ages, seeking a resting-place,

Broke on the shores of Britain the wave of an Aryan race.

Clear thro’ the mist of ages, ere ever the White Christ came,

Songs of the Cymric singers have chanted the Brython fame.

Dark with the fate of nations, and swift as a broadspear hurled,

The breath of the God of Battles swept o’er the western world.

Where are the old-time peoples, men of the war-like front,

From the surge of the wild Atlantic to the shores of the Hellespont?

by George Essex Evans

A Drought Idyll

It was the middle of the drought; the ground was hot and bare,

You might search for grass with a microscope, but nary grass was there;

The hay was done, the cornstalks gone, the trees were dying fast,

The sun o'erhead was a curse in read and the wind was a furnace blast;

The waterholes were sun-baked mud, the drays stood thick as bees

Around the well, a mile away, amid the ringbarked trees.

McGinty left his pumpkin-pie and gazed upon the scene:

His cows stood propped 'gainst tree and fence wherever they could lean;

by George Essex Evans

A Pastoral

Nature feels the touch of noon;

Not a rustle stirs the grass;

Not a shadow flecks the sky,

Save the brown hawk hovering nigh;

Not a ripple dims the glass

Of the wide lagoon.

Darkly, like an armed host

Seen afar against the blue,

by George Essex Evans

An Australian Symphony

Not as the songs of other lands

Her song shall be,

Where dim her purple shore-line stands

Above the sea!

As erst she stood, she stands alone;

Her inspiration is her own.

From sunlit plains to mangrove strands

Not as the songs of other lands

George Essex Evans