For Charles Dickens
Above our dear Romancer's dust
Grief takes the place of praise,
Because of sudden cypress thrust
Amid the old-earned bays.
Ah! when shall such another friend
By England's fireside sit,
To tell her of her faults, yet blend
Sage words with kindly wit?
He brings no pageants of the past
To wile our hearts away;
But wins our love for those who cast
Their lot with ours to-day.
He gives us laughter glad and long;
He gives us tears as pure;
He shames us with the published wrong
We meted to the poor.
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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No Message
She heard the story of the end,
Each message, too, she heard;
And there was one for every friend;
For her alone, no word.
And shall she bear a heavier heart,
And deem his love was fled;
Because his soul from earth could part
Leaving her name unsaid?
No, No! Though neither sign nor sound
A parting thought expressed,
Not heedless passed the Homeward-Bound
Of her he loved the best.
Of voyage-perils, bravely borne,
He would not tell the tale;
Of shattered planks and canvas torn,
And war with wind and gale.
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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In the South Pacific
A vision of a savage land,
A glimpse of cloud-ringed seas;
A moonlit deck, a murderous hand;
No more, no more of these!
No more! how heals the tender flesh,
Once torn by savage beast?
The wound, re-opening, bleeds afresh,
Each season at the least!
O day, for dawn of thee how prayed
The spirit, sore distressed;
Thy latest beams, upslanting, made
A pathway for the blest.
And robes, new-donned, of the redeemed,
Gleamed white past grief's dark pall:
So this, a day of death which seemed,
A birthday let us call.
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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To Henry the Fifth
My youth was passing, Sire, whilst you among
The cradle-wrappings slept; my morning-song
Sung o'er your pillow. Winds of heaven have thrown
Us both, since then, on heights apart and lone.
Heights! For misfortune drear, our destined land,
So thunder-scarred, a-nigh to heaven must stand!
The north and south are nearer than our ways
Are near to one another; and Fate lays
The purple round you, and has not withheld
Our France's sceptre-dazzlements of eld.
I, crowned with silver hairs, say, praising you,
“Well done!” That man is to his manhood true
Who bravely, at his own behest, will do
High deeds of self -undoing; will forego
All, all, save immemorial Honour; though
She seem to earthlier eyes a phantom, more
Will follow her (as erst in Elsinore
One faithful heart obeyed the beckoning ghost),
Nor stoop to buy a kingdom at her cost.
That you are aught save honest, none may say;
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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Where the Pelican Builds
The horses were ready, the rails were down,
But the riders lingered still --
One had a parting word to say,
And one had his pipe to fill.
Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer,
And one with a grief unguessed.
"We are going," they said, as they rode away --
"Where the pelican builds her nest!"
They had told us of pastures wide and green,
To be sought past the sunset's glow;
Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit;
And gold 'neath the river's flow.
And thirst and hunger were banished words
When they spoke of that unknown West;
No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared,
Where the pelican builds her nest!
The creek at the ford was but fetlock deep
When we watched them crossing there;
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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No Message
She heard the story of the end,
Each message, too, she heard;
And there was one for every friend;
For her alone -- no word.
And shall she bear a heavier heart,
And deem his love was fled;
Because his soul from earth could part
Leaving her name unsaid?
No -- No! -- Though neither sign nor sound
A parting thought expressed --
Not heedless passed the Homeward-Bound
Of her he loved the best.
Of voyage-perils, bravely borne,
He would not tell the tale;
Of shattered planks and canvas torn,
And war with wind and gale.
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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Napoleon III
His silent spirit from the place
Slid forth unseen; amid the throng
Of those whose love outlived disgrace,
Whose fealty to the last was strong.
'Midst homage, 'neath Fate's adverse reign,
Paid to the star shorn of its rays,
How passed the Exile? Lingering fain,
As never once in prouder days?
The Mother and the Child were there,
Discrowned and disinherited!
No hand henceforth to right the heir;
New griefs to bow the golden head.
How passed Napoleon? Prizing more,
Old fame in camp and council won
Or fearless England's aegis, o'er
The future of her ally's son?
Gate of that World we know not yet,
What thou beheld'st who may proclaim!
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New Country
Conde had come with us all the way --
Eight hundred miles -- but the fortnight's rest
Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay!
And Lurline was looking her very best.
Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed
'Mid the silvery saltbush well content;
Where the creeks lay cool 'neath the gidya's shade
The stock-horses clustered, travel-spent.
In the bright spring morning we left them all --
Camp, and cattle, and white, and black --
And rode for the Range's westward fall,
Where the dingo's trail was the only track.
Slow through the clay-pans, wet to the knee,
With the cane-grass rustling overhead;
Swift o'er the plains with never a tree;
Up the cliffs by a torrent's bed.
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The Aurora Australis
A radiance in the midnight sky
No white moon gave, nor yellow star;
We thought its red glow mounted high
Where fire and forest fought afar,
Half questioning if the township blazed,
Perchance, beyond the boundary hill;
Then, finding what it was, we gazed
And wondered till we shivered chill.
And Fancy showed the sister-glow
Of our Aurora, sending lines
Of lustre forth to tint the snow
That lodges in Norwegian pines.
And South and North alternate swept
In vision past us, to and fro;
While stealthy winds of midnight crept
About us, whispering fast and low.
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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Watch-Night
Midnight, musical and splendid,
And the Old Year's life is ended,
And the New, “born in the purple,” babe yet crowned, among us dwells;
While Creation's welcome swells,
Starlight all the heavens pervading,
And the whole world serenading
Him, at birth, with all its bells!
Round the cradle of the tender
Flows the music, shines the splendor;
It is early yet for counsel, but bethink how Hermes gave,
(While the Myths were bright and brave),
Thwarted Phoebus no small battle,
Seeking back his lifted cattle,
Hour-old Hermes, in his cave!
New Year, if thy youth should blind us
Thy swift feet, perchance, may find us
Sleeping in the dark, unguarded, as the sun-god's herds were found!
Lest, unready, on his round
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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