 | Parting legacy of R. H. Horne to Australia |  |
JOHN FERNCLIFF:
AN AUSTRALIAN NARRATIVE POEM, IN THREE CANTOS
CANTO III.
The Chief—King Baw-Baw—wore a bird's thigh-bone
Thrust thro' his nose, in token of his rank;
And from his neck there hung a white flint stone.
His legs were hairy, sinewy, and lank;
His arms stain'd blood-red. Near a grey-moss'd bank
With eyes half closed he stands. Behind one ear
Hang pitchery-twigs, to chew—narcotic, rank;
Wound round his shaggy forehead he doth wear
A pelican-feather broad, which looks like bristling hair.
Thrust thro' his nose, in token of his rank;
And from his neck there hung a white flint stone.
His legs were hairy, sinewy, and lank;
His arms stain'd blood-red. Near a grey-moss'd bank
With eyes half closed he stands. Behind one ear
Hang pitchery-twigs, to chew—narcotic, rank;
Wound round his shaggy forehead he doth wear
A pelican-feather broad, which looks like bristling hair.
VIII
At day-break the Blacks' camp broke up—pursuingA steady course—north-and-by-east it seem'd—
Camping again at night; Koo'leenth renewing
Her tender services, with eyes that gleam'd
Of love, while Ferncliff's anxious fancy teem'd,
Now with the purpose of the Blacks?—the cause?
If by a ransom he could be redeem'd?
Then, with wild thoughts, like fire 'midst whirling straws,
He dreams of Anne—of torture—and of cannibal maws!
LOST ON CATTSKILL.
A BOY'S STORY.
(From an old Travelling Note-Book.)
I
“Pine Orchard's pine-tops!” showed our telescope,And the river-boat ran for a green-sward slope,
Where we landed, and upward sped,
By a winding path through high banks and rocks
Stain'd yellow, brown, pink, and o'erhung with locks
Of flowering creepers, magnolias, and docks,
And cranberries red,
On our way up the Cattskill Mountains.
II
I had just left the glare of the Mexican Gulf,In man-o'-war rig, as rough as a wolf,
And yearning for grass-lights and woods;
So up the steep windings I cheerfully trod,
With a shoulder delighted to carry Time's hod,
Like a pilgrim who dreams of a mission to God,
Without cowls or hoods,
As we clomb up the Cattskill Mountains.
| Parting legacy of R. H. Horne to Australia | |