Marcus Clarke(24 April 1846 - 2 August 1881 / London / United Kingdom)
An Australian Paean—1876
- by Marcus Clarke45
The English air is fresh and fair, The Irish fields are green; The bright light gleams o'er Scotland's streams, And glows her hills between. The hawthorn is in blossom, And birds from every bough Make musical the dewy spring In April England now.
Our April bears no blossoms, No promises of spring; Her gifts are rain and storm and stain, And surges lash and swing. No budded wreath doth she bequeath, Her tempests toss the trees; No balmy gales—but shivered sails, And desolated seas.
Yet still we love our April, For it aids us to bequeath A gift more fair than blossoms rare, More sweet than budded wreath. Our children's tend'rest memories Round Austral April grow; 'Twas the month we won their freedom, boys, Just twenty years ago.
Though Scotland has her forests, Though Erin has her vales, Though plentiful her harvests, In England's sunny dales; Yet foul amidst the fairness, The factory chimneys smoke, And the murmurs of the many In their burdened bosoms choke.
We hear the children's voices 'Mid the rattle of its looms, Crying, “Wherefore shut God's heaven All our golden afternoons?” Though here the English April Nor song nor sun imparts, Its Spring is on our children's lips, Its summer in their hearts!
We've left the land that bore us, Its castles and its shrines; We've changed the cornfields and the rye For the olives and the vines. Yet still we have our castles, Yet still we bow the knee; We each enshrine a saint divine, And her name is Liberty.
Liberty! name of warning! Did'st thou feel our pulses beat As we marching, moved this morning All adown the cheering street? In our federated freedom, In our manliness allied, While the badges of our labour Were the banners of our pride.
Did our fancies speak prophetic Of a larger league than this— With higher aims and nobler claims To grasp the good we miss; When in freer federation In a future yet to be, Australia stands a nation From the centre to the sea.
Cheer for Australia, comrades, And cheer for Britain, too; Who loves them both will not be loth To give each land its due. So cheer for Britain, comrades; Our fathers loved the soil, And the grandeur of her greatness Is the measure of their toil.
But never let our sons forget, Till mem'ry's self be dead, If Britain gave us birth, my lads, Australia gave us bread! Then cheer for young Australia, The empire of the Free, Where yet a Greater Britain The Southern Cross shall see!
The Song of Tigilau
- by Marcus Clarke35
The song of Tigilau the brave, Sina's wild lover, Who across the heaving wave From Samoa came over: Came over, Sina, at the setting moon!
The moon shines round and bright; She, with her dark-eyed maidens at her side, Watches the rising tide. While balmy breathes the starry southern night, While languid heaves the lazy southern tide; The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon!
The night is past, is past and gone, The moon sinks to the West, The sea-heart beats opprest, And Sina's passionate breast Heaves like the sea, when the pale moon has gone, Heaves like the passionate sea, Sina, left by the moon alone!
Silver on silver sands, the rippling waters meet -- Will he come soon? The rippling waters kiss her delicate feet, The rippling waters, lisping low and sweet, Ripple with the tide, The rising tide, The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon!
He comes! -- her lover! Tigilau, the son of Tui Viti. Her maidens round her hover, The rising waves her white feet cover. O Tigilau, son of Tui Viti, Through the mellow dusk thy proas glide, So soon! So soon by the rising tide, The rising tide, my Sina, and the setting moon!
The mooring-poles are left, The whitening waves are cleft, By the prows of Tui Viti! By the sharp keels of Tui Viti! Broad is the sea, and deep, The yellow Samoans sleep, But they will wake and weep -- Weep in their luxurious odorous vales, While the land breeze swells the sails Of Tui Viti! Tui Viti -- far upon the rising tide, The rising tide -- The rising tide, my Sina, beneath the setting moon!
She leaps to meet him! Her mouth to greet him Burns at his own. Away! To the canoes, To the yoked war canoes! The sea in murmurous tone Whispers the story of their loves, Re-echoes the story of their loves -- The story of Tui Viti, Of Sina and Tui Viti, By the rising tide, The rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon!
She has gone! She has fled! Sina! Sina, for whom the warriors decked their shining hair, Wreathing with pearls their bosoms brown and bare, Flinging beneath her dainty feet Mats crimson with the feathers of the parrakeet. Ho, Samoans! rouse your warriors full soon, For Sina is across the rippling wave, With Tigilau, the bold and brave. Far, far upon the rising tide! Far upon the rising tide! Far upon the rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon.
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