A Poetry of Exiles By Douglas B. W. Sladen: An Australian colonist: Second edition, revised |
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THE YELLOW SANDS OF SUSSEX. |
 | A Poetry of Exiles |  |
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THE YELLOW SANDS OF SUSSEX.
They stood upon the yellow sands—
An old man and a brown-eyed maid—
And said, “'Twas here his childish hands
With little wooden pail and spade
Worked bravely at the grand designs
That filled his childhood's fertile brain,
Castles and towers and rampart-lines,
Which crumbled when the sea again
Came rolling in with jealous wave,
And through their bastions sapped and clave.”
An old man and a brown-eyed maid—
And said, “'Twas here his childish hands
With little wooden pail and spade
Worked bravely at the grand designs
That filled his childhood's fertile brain,
Castles and towers and rampart-lines,
Which crumbled when the sea again
Came rolling in with jealous wave,
And through their bastions sapped and clave.”
They talk upon the yellow sands—
The maiden and the grey-haired man—
Of one who now no longer stands
Where he his childhood's hopes began.
They say, “The little hands, that then
Were busy with the wooden spade,
Are far away and with the pen
The fertile brain its towers has made,”
And wonder if, where now he stands,
He muses on these yellow sands.
The maiden and the grey-haired man—
Of one who now no longer stands
Where he his childhood's hopes began.
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Were busy with the wooden spade,
Are far away and with the pen
The fertile brain its towers has made,”
And wonder if, where now he stands,
He muses on these yellow sands.
Far off—on shores Australian—
He stands, of whom these words they said,
The first son of the grey-haired man,
The brother of the brown-eyed maid;
And, when not busy with his pen,
And with no voices in his ears,
He often bends his thoughts again
Unto those dear old childish years,
When he upon that distant strand
Was playing with the yellow sand.
He stands, of whom these words they said,
The first son of the grey-haired man,
The brother of the brown-eyed maid;
And, when not busy with his pen,
And with no voices in his ears,
He often bends his thoughts again
Unto those dear old childish years,
When he upon that distant strand
Was playing with the yellow sand.
The grey-haired man had locks as brown
As are the brown-eyed maid's to-day;
The brown-eyed maid—in baby gown,
Was hardly old enough to play,
When he, the brother and the son,—
A child—was playing on the shore
Beneath the light of eyes now gone;
And yet it seemed as if no more
Of months than there were years had passed,
Since he and they had stood there last.
As are the brown-eyed maid's to-day;
The brown-eyed maid—in baby gown,
Was hardly old enough to play,
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A child—was playing on the shore
Beneath the light of eyes now gone;
And yet it seemed as if no more
Of months than there were years had passed,
Since he and they had stood there last.
Far off, upon Australian sands,
A fair-haired boy they've never seen,
With wooden spade in childish hands,
Like that which in his sire's had been,
Is shaping out some grand designs,
Known only to his childish brain,
But strangely-like the towered lines
Which, once, beyond the northern main,
His Father used with childish hands
To rear upon the yellow sands.
A fair-haired boy they've never seen,
With wooden spade in childish hands,
Like that which in his sire's had been,
Is shaping out some grand designs,
Known only to his childish brain,
But strangely-like the towered lines
Which, once, beyond the northern main,
His Father used with childish hands
To rear upon the yellow sands.
It may perchance some afterday
Fall out that on these Austral sands,
I shall point out some spot and say,
“'Twas here his little childish hands
Worked bravely at the vast designs,
That filled his childhood's active brain,”
When the fair boy has sought the pines,
Which wave beyond the northern main,
And the world's sand shall show impress
Of his maturer activeness.
Fall out that on these Austral sands,
I shall point out some spot and say,
“'Twas here his little childish hands
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That filled his childhood's active brain,”
When the fair boy has sought the pines,
Which wave beyond the northern main,
And the world's sand shall show impress
Of his maturer activeness.
These two thus talking on the sands,
The old man and the brown-eyed maid,
Proudly, regretfully of hands
Which here in their glad childhood played,
Are they not types of half our life?
Upon the seashore of the mind
We stand, reviewing time-scapes rife
With memories long left behind,
Of those, who from our sight are lost
Beyond the sea, by Dead-folk crossed.
The old man and the brown-eyed maid,
Proudly, regretfully of hands
Which here in their glad childhood played,
Are they not types of half our life?
Upon the seashore of the mind
We stand, reviewing time-scapes rife
With memories long left behind,
Of those, who from our sight are lost
Beyond the sea, by Dead-folk crossed.
Are not the castles on the sands
A type of hopes and aims sublime,
Which youth, so sanguine of his hands,
Would build upon the sands of time?
Are not the waves, which, rolling on,
Have levelled all the child began,
A type of the oblivion
Which overwhelms all works of man
That are not set up high and dry
Above the tide, impregnably?
A type of hopes and aims sublime,
Which youth, so sanguine of his hands,
Would build upon the sands of time?
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Have levelled all the child began,
A type of the oblivion
Which overwhelms all works of man
That are not set up high and dry
Above the tide, impregnably?
Adieu, upon the yellow sands,
O greyhaired man and brown-eyed maid,
Gone there to talk of childish hands
Which plied a busy wooden spade!
Adieu, upon the yellow sands,
O maiden and O greyhaired man!
Be sure of this, that he, who stands
Upon far shores Australian,
Makes oft a spirit pilgrimage
To haunts he loved in childhood's age.
O greyhaired man and brown-eyed maid,
Gone there to talk of childish hands
Which plied a busy wooden spade!
Adieu, upon the yellow sands,
O maiden and O greyhaired man!
Be sure of this, that he, who stands
Upon far shores Australian,
Makes oft a spirit pilgrimage
To haunts he loved in childhood's age.
| A Poetry of Exiles | |