They Shall Come Home

ALTHOUGH they sleep in alien graves afar,
Where, restlessly, chill winds we know not roam,
When Peace has laid the cruel waves of war
They shall come home!
Their spirit cannot die, though they be dead,
The young, the brave, the noble, and the dear!
And we shall know by some sweet influence shed
That they are near.
Because of them we shall go unafraid
And front the Future, strong and valorous;
They shall come home, when most we need their aid,
And hearten us.
What soul we owned we knew not till they died;
Upon high nationhood they set the seal;
The crude ore taken from the mountainside
They wrought to steel.
What though they passed in all their pride and power
With steadfast tread adown the sunset-track
To Glory's gates? — in memory's hallowed hour
They shall come back.

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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By Momba Tracks

THE hearts of the everlasting-flowers
Shall steal the gold o' the sun
When the winter rains have done their work
And the winter days are done,
And the desert pea shall hue the rocks
By the tracks of Momba run.
The dew shall gleam on the silken webs
That the night-time spider weaves,
And scatter its gems on the saltbush plains
And drip from the homestead eaves,
And the quandong fruit take ruddy fire
In the green of the quandong leaves.
The bees shall saunter from bloom to bloom
And burthen their honey-sacs;
And the drovers ride in the sunset light
On the long, long winding tracks;
But never a man shall pause to pray
By the graves of the Barrier blacks.
Deep dug they lie in the mulga scrub,
These graves of a dwindling race,

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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After Drafting

NIGHT has fallen, night and darkness,
Night with star and planet splendid;
And the earth lies like a giant
Wrapt in sleep, with limbs extended.
Rest has stolen on the homestead,
On the long day's rush and riot,
And no sound of horse or rider
Breaks the soft and dewy quiet.
Yet, like heart-cries
After battle,
Comes the calling, ceaseless calling,
Of the dun and dappled cattle.
Sleep is sweet, and sweet is silence,
When the long day's work is over,
For the toiler and the moiler,
And the rider and the rover.
Not a breeze abroad at night-time
Sets the barley-grass aquiver,
And from dewfall on to sunrise
Sleeps the curlew by the river.

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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Irony

ALL night a great wind blew across the land,
Come fresh from wild and salty seas,
With many voices loud and low
Appealing to the sympathies
Of those with whom long, long ago
It had been friends, but who
Had lost the way to know and understand
Its weird and tearless woe.
A sleeper, drawn from ancient fancies, stirred,
And strangely breathed in deep unrest
As though his heart were choked with grief;
The moon down-stealing in the west
Threw every move of limb and leaf
Upon his blind. Now this
Was he the wind sought wildly, had he heard —
Alas, the friend was deaf!
All time a great Thought wandered round the world
Naked and breathing loveliness,
Seeking in alien souls a home
And thwarted, yet a-seek no less

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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Sydney Cove, 1788

SHE sat on the rocks, her fireless eyes
Teased and tired with the thoughts of yore;
And paining her sense were alien skies,
An alien sea and an alien shore.
In gold-green dusks she glimpsed new flowers
And the glittering wings of gleaming birds —
But haunting her still were English bowers
And the clinging sweetness of old love-words.
A soft breeze murmured of unknown shores
And laughed as it touched her with fingers light,
But she mourned the more for the wind that roars
Down sullen coasts on a northern night.
Like topaz gems on a sable dome
The stranger stars stole shyly forth;
She saw no stars like the stars of home
That burned, white-fired, in the frosty north.
A restless sea was at her feet,
A restless sea of darkest blue;
The lights burned dimly on The Fleet,
And these were all the ships it knew.

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Scarlet Cloak

ONE may go a-many leagues a-questing yon and hither;
One may look on queens and kings, and think the vision bliss;
But he who has the wholesome heart, as lightsome as a feather,
Can find a joy in everything, no matter what it is.
Golden Miles to Burrawang, when the morn was tender! —
How your memory rises up, how it haunts and smiles!
Back again, and back it comes — all the early splendour —
All your length made beautiful, O you Golden Miles!
You that wore the scarlet cloak in the pearly morning,
When the sun came up the East, and through the heavens strode
Like a prince of great account, cloud and mist-wreath scorning —
What was in the heart of you, waiting by the road?
Birds of all the bush around were at their greeting matins,
Some with little twitterings, and some with loud acclaim;
Cloth-of-gold is fine wear, and fine are silks and satins —
Finer was the scarlet cloak that wrapped you like a flame.
You that wore the scarlet cloak in the early morning,
When the leaves were dancing all, and the dewdrops glowed,
Like a flower — a flower of flowers, the dewy way adorning —
Love was in the heart of you, waiting by the road!

poem by Roderic Quinn
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Two Pictures

WE sat by an open window
And hearkened the sounds outside —
The call of a lonely night-bird,
And the croon of a making tide.
He was an island-trader,
And talked of his sunlit home,
Of the palms and the happy people,
And reef and beach and foam.
All that the trader told me
Was wine to my soul and balm;
And I longed for the moonlit beaches
And the coral and the palm.
He was browned with the sun and weather
(How changed in mood and mien
From the days when the dark-eyed woman
Was throned in his heart a queen!)
He talked of the merry-makers,
Of the flower-crowned native girls;
Their eyes with the lure of midnight,
And their teeth like island pearls.

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Black Hound

WHITE-TOOTHED is the Black Hound,
And ever, as he comes after,
There is no sweetness in wine,
Nor is there joyance in laughter.
Red-tongued is the Black Hound,
And ever, as he speeds baying,
There is no shaking him off,
Nor is there stopping or staying.
Keen-sensed in the thick dark
He follows for ever and ever;
Nought stays him in his pursuit —
Nor marsh, nor mountain, nor river.
Day-long through the broad light,
His tongue like a flame outleaping,
He hunts; and we fly before,
Wan-faced, foot-weary and weeping.
Night-through in the still hours
When stars in the sky assemble,
We hear his cry on the roads,
And startled, staring, we tremble.

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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Spring Song

SING out and be happy!
The Spring is at hand,
The grass green, and sappy
The trees o' the land.
Sing! for the breeze is
Rustling and silky,
And toys with and teases
Long blossoms and milky.
The root in the juices
Unfrosted drinks deep;
The loving wave sluices
The weeds as they sleep.
Sing out! for the bees in
Their quest of wild honey
Are haunting the trees in
Green places and sunny.
Distant blue reaches
And green hills invite,
Green hills and long beaches
And roads red and white.

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Camp Within the West

O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?

Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’

And were they pale as pale could be—
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise?

Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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