 | Australian Lyrics &c |  |
60
GONE HOME.
Shakespeare, his life's work over, fell asleep
Where his own Avon, broad and slow and deep,
Lazily washes, with its waters brown,
The outskirts of the little low-built town
In which he first saw light; whither he came
Oft, from the crush of work and flush of fame,
To snatch a summer holiday among
The sights and sounds he loved when he was young.
Here, when he saw the shadows of his end
Sloping, before the darkness did descend
Upon his eyes, he set himself to win
A quiet twilight-converse with his kin;
And, when the night on gentle wing did come,
Lay down beside his sires in their long home.
Where his own Avon, broad and slow and deep,
Lazily washes, with its waters brown,
The outskirts of the little low-built town
In which he first saw light; whither he came
Oft, from the crush of work and flush of fame,
To snatch a summer holiday among
The sights and sounds he loved when he was young.
Here, when he saw the shadows of his end
Sloping, before the darkness did descend
Upon his eyes, he set himself to win
A quiet twilight-converse with his kin;
And, when the night on gentle wing did come,
Lay down beside his sires in their long home.
John Milton, journeying threescore years and more,
Mostly 'mid darkness, evil days, and war,
Both in high places and in low estate,
Had gone no further off than Cripplegate
(Starting from Bread-street) when his knees grew slack.
And Spenser, born in London, coming back,
Ere he was wearied out, to Westminster,
After his hope-wreck, bowed his sad head there;
And Warren Hastings died in Worcestershire.
Mostly 'mid darkness, evil days, and war,
Both in high places and in low estate,
Had gone no further off than Cripplegate
(Starting from Bread-street) when his knees grew slack.
And Spenser, born in London, coming back,
Ere he was wearied out, to Westminster,
After his hope-wreck, bowed his sad head there;
And Warren Hastings died in Worcestershire.
Surely there is no holier desire
Than that our bones should rest in the same earth
With the dear bones of those who gave us birth,
Tolled by the bells that fell upon our ear
When first we learned the meaning of “to hear”;
Outside the church whither we went to pray
Upon that memorable Sabbath day
When we were first thought “old enough to take.”
Than that our bones should rest in the same earth
With the dear bones of those who gave us birth,
Tolled by the bells that fell upon our ear
When first we learned the meaning of “to hear”;
Outside the church whither we went to pray
Upon that memorable Sabbath day
When we were first thought “old enough to take.”
Is it not meeter, for our Mother's sake,
That when we reach the measured term of men
We should return unto the dust again
Where from the dust we sprang?
That when we reach the measured term of men
We should return unto the dust again
Where from the dust we sprang?
61
And so he lies,
After long sojourn 'neath Australian skies,
In his own Derbyshire; if the dead hear,
He hears the ceaseless plashing at the weir
Of the pent Derwent; if the dead can see
In their new life where their old bodies be,
He'll know the gray church by the river side
Where, in old days, in his life's morning-tide,
His father urged the villagers to heaven.
How happy he who, in his life's late even,
Ere darkness fell, was given once more to roam
'Mid old associations of his home!
With what joy must he, e'en with weary feet,
Have climbed again the causewayed winding street
That led up from the parsonage unto
The sweeping moorlands, where the heather grew
And bloomed for miles in August, till he stood
Upon the breezy edge from whence he could
See over Chatsworth! How he must have loved
To stand upon the bridge, where he had roved
In boyhood, and once more watch the brown trout
Between the stepping-stones dart in and out
In the clear waters of the river seen
Like flames that flicker through a crystal screen!
After long sojourn 'neath Australian skies,
In his own Derbyshire; if the dead hear,
He hears the ceaseless plashing at the weir
Of the pent Derwent; if the dead can see
In their new life where their old bodies be,
He'll know the gray church by the river side
Where, in old days, in his life's morning-tide,
His father urged the villagers to heaven.
How happy he who, in his life's late even,
Ere darkness fell, was given once more to roam
'Mid old associations of his home!
With what joy must he, e'en with weary feet,
Have climbed again the causewayed winding street
That led up from the parsonage unto
The sweeping moorlands, where the heather grew
And bloomed for miles in August, till he stood
Upon the breezy edge from whence he could
See over Chatsworth! How he must have loved
To stand upon the bridge, where he had roved
In boyhood, and once more watch the brown trout
Between the stepping-stones dart in and out
In the clear waters of the river seen
Like flames that flicker through a crystal screen!
Must not his eyes, in exile many a year,
Amid the newness of our hemisphere,
Have revelled in the time-transfigured walls
Of hoary Haddon's legendary halls?
Amid the newness of our hemisphere,
Have revelled in the time-transfigured walls
Of hoary Haddon's legendary halls?
Would he not turn from Haddon to the tower
Where the Scots Queen beguiled the weary hour
With prayer and broidering and tapestry;
Or watching the huge carp that floated by
Down in the moat, the monarchs of their race,
Yet done to death by frogs in no long space?
She must have moralized, as oft she saw
The humble reptile, with his feeble claw
Blinding and killing off the royal fish,
And feasting on their torture and anguish.
Where the Scots Queen beguiled the weary hour
With prayer and broidering and tapestry;
Or watching the huge carp that floated by
Down in the moat, the monarchs of their race,
Yet done to death by frogs in no long space?
She must have moralized, as oft she saw
The humble reptile, with his feeble claw
Blinding and killing off the royal fish,
And feasting on their torture and anguish.
And now he rests. Nor shall the palm-tree wave,
Hearse-like, her feathery plumes above his grave;
Nor shall the bushman walk his tired horse by,
And slouch his hat over his aching eye,
To seek relief from the fierce glare of sun
Upon the stone that bears his name thereon.
He has gone home; his native ash-trees weep
Over the sod 'neath which he lies asleep;
And the north country's ivy-mantled oak
Stands by, as witness that his own kinsfolk
Are with him after all his pilgrimage.
How oft must he, when parching to assuage
His throat's drouth in “a dry and thirsty land,
Where is no water” 'mid the golden sand,
Have wished that he had never left the shore
Of the sweet sparkling Derwent! Nevermore
Shall they be parted. Could he but have seen
In those faint hours—a moment's space—the green
Of his own Derbyshire, he would have risen,
Like a giant refreshed, from out his prison
Of thirst and fever, to renew the fight.
He will have cool moist moist all his long night,
Pressed on his weary temples to allay
The heat and drouth and throbbings of his day.
Hearse-like, her feathery plumes above his grave;
Nor shall the bushman walk his tired horse by,
62
To seek relief from the fierce glare of sun
Upon the stone that bears his name thereon.
He has gone home; his native ash-trees weep
Over the sod 'neath which he lies asleep;
And the north country's ivy-mantled oak
Stands by, as witness that his own kinsfolk
Are with him after all his pilgrimage.
How oft must he, when parching to assuage
His throat's drouth in “a dry and thirsty land,
Where is no water” 'mid the golden sand,
Have wished that he had never left the shore
Of the sweet sparkling Derwent! Nevermore
Shall they be parted. Could he but have seen
In those faint hours—a moment's space—the green
Of his own Derbyshire, he would have risen,
Like a giant refreshed, from out his prison
Of thirst and fever, to renew the fight.
He will have cool moist moist all his long night,
Pressed on his weary temples to allay
The heat and drouth and throbbings of his day.
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