A Poetry of Exiles By Douglas B. W. Sladen: An Australian colonist: Second edition, revised |
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THE TWO BROTHERS. |
 | A Poetry of Exiles |  |
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THE TWO BROTHERS.
Hoar is the manse 'mid purple heather,
Where hardy with the hard grey weather
Of breezy Scottish hills,
Two gallant boys grew up together,
For triumphs or for ills.
Where hardy with the hard grey weather
Of breezy Scottish hills,
Two gallant boys grew up together,
For triumphs or for ills.
Bred in the parish-school to knowledge,
Sent in their ripening years to college
In the old classic towers,
Their wild blood forced them to acknowledge
That there are inner powers
Sent in their ripening years to college
In the old classic towers,
Their wild blood forced them to acknowledge
That there are inner powers
Which bow not to the calculations
Of those who tend our educations,
But mould us at their will,
Our several predestinations
In due time to fulfil.
Of those who tend our educations,
But mould us at their will,
Our several predestinations
In due time to fulfil.
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Each left those towers without emotion,
Each tendered his young life's devotion
To that time-honoured hope
And refuge of high hearts—the ocean
With its prodigious scope.
Each tendered his young life's devotion
To that time-honoured hope
And refuge of high hearts—the ocean
With its prodigious scope.
And there they parted, one to mingle
With clenched hilt and tight-drawn surcingle
In the fierce surge of war,
Far from the Highland fireside's ingle,
From his boy-brother far,
With clenched hilt and tight-drawn surcingle
In the fierce surge of war,
Far from the Highland fireside's ingle,
From his boy-brother far,
And after to lay down the sabre,
And through unheard of risk and labour
To wield a soldier's pen,
To make grim war his next-door neighbour,
And live with dying men,
And through unheard of risk and labour
To wield a soldier's pen,
To make grim war his next-door neighbour,
And live with dying men,
Until all Europe rang the praises,
Of him who chronicled the phases,
Events, and daily stride
Of warfare in a warrior's phrases,
And for his work defied
Of him who chronicled the phases,
Events, and daily stride
Of warfare in a warrior's phrases,
And for his work defied
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The lurking perils of night-watches,
And Victory's shell-mangled batches,
Like combatants themselves,
That every day might bring despatches
To every cottar's shelves.
And Victory's shell-mangled batches,
Like combatants themselves,
That every day might bring despatches
To every cottar's shelves.
The other on the sea went roaming,
Until some chance controlled his coming
To Queensland's sunny shore,
Unconscious that the Powers were dooming
That he should leave no more.
Until some chance controlled his coming
To Queensland's sunny shore,
Unconscious that the Powers were dooming
That he should leave no more.
And here the same fierce blood, which hurried
His brother swift and undeterrèd
To where the war was waged,
Left him no rest till he was buried,
As in his veins it raged.
His brother swift and undeterrèd
To where the war was waged,
Left him no rest till he was buried,
As in his veins it raged.
Now you could hear his stockwhip rattle,
Mustering roving herds of cattle
Out on a western run,
Now he was fighting a stark battle
Under a northern sun
Mustering roving herds of cattle
Out on a western run,
Now he was fighting a stark battle
Under a northern sun
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With quartz reefs for their golden treasures,
Enshrining his wild pains and pleasures
In strong pathetic verse,
And giving in his rugged measures
A picture rich and terse
Enshrining his wild pains and pleasures
In strong pathetic verse,
And giving in his rugged measures
A picture rich and terse
Of miners and their wild existence,
Of bush life in the untamed distance,
Of shanty-revelry,
And of stern struggles for subsistence
When creek and run were dry.
Of bush life in the untamed distance,
Of shanty-revelry,
And of stern struggles for subsistence
When creek and run were dry.
Ten years had passed since last the tidings
Of his migrations and abidings
Had reached his far-off friends,
When, following the inner guidings
Which shape us to our ends,
Of his migrations and abidings
Had reached his far-off friends,
When, following the inner guidings
Which shape us to our ends,
Or by some chance, the elder brother
His footsteps turned to where the other
Had breathed out his bright life,
Without the hand of child or mother
To soothe in the last strife.
His footsteps turned to where the other
Had breathed out his bright life,
Without the hand of child or mother
To soothe in the last strife.
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He knew not where to seek, nor even
Whether a kind and gracious Heaven
Had held a shielding hand
Over that head, and it were given
To him in this far land
Whether a kind and gracious Heaven
Had held a shielding hand
Over that head, and it were given
To him in this far land
To clasp his long-lost brother to him;
Nor might he know till those who knew him,
The lost one, in old times,
Came shyly in to interview him
With wild yarns and stray rhymes
Nor might he know till those who knew him,
The lost one, in old times,
Came shyly in to interview him
With wild yarns and stray rhymes
Of the bush-poet—brother drovers
And mining-mates and some few rovers,
And Jacks of every trade
Like the dead brother, all staunch lovers
Of him, who 'neath the shade
And mining-mates and some few rovers,
And Jacks of every trade
Like the dead brother, all staunch lovers
Of him, who 'neath the shade
Of the God's acre trees was lying,
Where nightly the hillwinds come sighing
Over Toowomba's heights,
Where friendly hands received him dying,
And tended his faint lights
Where nightly the hillwinds come sighing
Over Toowomba's heights,
Where friendly hands received him dying,
And tended his faint lights
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So tenderly. And some wild rover,
Stockman, or mining mate or drover,
Brought out one day a book,
Well-thumbed, with torn green paper cover,
And bade the brother look
Stockman, or mining mate or drover,
Brought out one day a book,
Well-thumbed, with torn green paper cover,
And bade the brother look
On ill-cut pages ornamented,
In type unevenly indented,
And lines that were not flush,
With stirring rough-hewn poems printed
As “Voices from the Bush.”
In type unevenly indented,
And lines that were not flush,
With stirring rough-hewn poems printed
As “Voices from the Bush.”
Adieu, staunch mates, who fondly hoarded
The memory else unregarded
Of him with his wild rhymes,
Who nursed, unnamed and unrewarded,
His fame till better times!
The memory else unregarded
Of him with his wild rhymes,
Who nursed, unnamed and unrewarded,
His fame till better times!
And thou, great, tender, soldier brother,
Come from so far to seek the other,
Who here breathed out his life
Too soon, without a child or mother
To soothe in his last strife!
Come from so far to seek the other,
Who here breathed out his life
Too soon, without a child or mother
To soothe in his last strife!
| A Poetry of Exiles | |