Among the Mirtles, as I walkt,
Love and my sighs thus intertalkt:
Tell me, said I, in deep distresse,
Where I may find my Shepardesse.
Thou foole, said Love, know'st thou not this?
In every thing that's sweet, she is.
In yond' Carnation goe and seek,
There thou shalt find her lip and cheek:
In that ennamel'd Pansie by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye:
In bloome of Peach, and Roses bud,
There waves the Streamer of her blood.
'Tis true, said I, and thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union;

I gaze across the distant hills,
Thy coming to espy;
Beloved, haste, the day grows late,
The sun sinks down the sky.

All the old loves I followed once
Are now unfaithful found;
But a sweet sickness holds me yet
Of love that has no bound!

Love that the sensual heart ne'er knows,
Such power, such grace it brings,
Which sucks desire and thought away
From all created things.

O make me faithful while I live,
Attuned but to thy praise,
And may no pleasure born of earth
Entice to devious ways.

The daughters of the nation,
With purpose great and grand,
To dreary isolation
Went out upon the land;
A national oblation,
This patriotic band.

The daughters of the nation
Went out at love's behest,
With firm determination
To settle in the west;
Through bush fire's desolation,
With babies at the breast.

Undaunted by the wild men,
Beyond protection's ken,
To where nor road nor line ran,
Glad went they with their men
To take the seal of sun-tan,
Beside their valiant men.

The women of Port Jackson

'T IS true, one half of woman's life is hope
And one half resignation. Between there lies
Anguish of broken dreams,—doubt, dire surprise,
And then is born the strength with all to cope.
Unconsciously sublime, life's shadowed slope
She braves; the knowledge in her patient eyes
Of all that love bestows and love denies,
As writ in every woman's horoscope!
She lives, her heart-beats given to others' needs,
Her hands, to lift for others on the way
The burdens which their weariness forsook.
She dies, an uncrowned doer of great deeds.

In the high-vaulted temple of my heart
There is an oratory thine alone—
A sweet, hushed, sacred chantry all thine own.
There do I fly when I would be apart
To dream dear dreams, for there I know thou art,
Albeit I see thee not. There is thy throne;
There thou art crowned, and as at altar-stone
Fain would I kneel and let the day depart!
While this remains I cannot lose thee, dear,
Though countless centuries between us roll,
Though earth dissolves, and planets disappear,
And all the splendor of the starry scroll

WHEN the Virgin bore a child,
Man to God was reconcil'd:
Righteousness and Love could meet
At an Infant Saviour's feet:
Mercy was Religion's part,
And the Temple was the heart;
Poverty had breath to live,
And Resentments to forgive;
Love to enemies could roam,
Never absent from its home;
And the wounded heart could melt
For the hand whose blow it felt.

Had Redemption told no more,
Well might Kings the Child adore,
And Philosophy disclaim
All its impious Learning's fame.
But above the reach of thought
Was the miracle it wrought;

Hoe too is an edged tool,
But in sharpness sickle certainly wins.
Father too is a parent,
Wi tongdo tungsyong
But in love mother surely surpasses.
O love, his indeed cannot be more than hers.

See the stars, love,
In the water much clearer and brighter
Than those above us, and whiter,
Like nenuphars!

Star-shadows shine, love:
How many stars in your bowl?
How many shadows in your soul?
Only mine, love, mine?

When I move the oars, see
How the stars are tossed,
Distorted, even lost!
Even yours, do you see?

The poor waters spill
The stars, waters troubled, forsaken!—
The heavens are not shaken you say, love;
Its stars stand still.

There! did you see
That spark fly up at us? even
Stars are not safe in heaven!

Dear! let me dream of love,
Ah! though a dream it be!
I'll ask no boon, above
A word, a smile, from thee:
At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.

Sweet, let me gaze awhile
Into those radiant eyes!
I'll scheme not to beguile
The heart, that deeper lies
Beneath them, than yon star in night's pellucid skies.

Love, let my spirit bow
In worship at thy shrine!
I'll swear, thou shalt not know
One word from lips of mine,
An instant's pain to send through that shy soul of thine.

Is not Love here, as 'tis in other Clymes,
And diff'reth it, as doe the sev'rall Nations?
Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times,
Or in this Iland alt'reth with the Fashions?
Or have our Passions lesser pow'r then theirs,
Who had lesse Art them lively to expresse?
Is Nature growne lesse pow'rfull in their Heires,
Or in our Fathers did she more transgresse?
I am sure my Sighes come from a Heart as true,
As any Mans, that Memory can boast,
And my Respects and Services to you
Equall with his, that loves his Mistres most: