Past the waste of thorny terrors； did he reach a sphere of rills；
In a region yet untravelled； ringed by fair untrodden hills？
Was the spot where last he rested pleasant as an old…world lea？
Did the sweet winds come and lull him with the music of the sea？
Let us dream so … let us hope so！ Haply in a cool green glade；
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Far beyond the zone of furnace； Leichhardt's sacred shell was laid！
Haply in some leafy valley； underneath blue； gracious skies；
In the sound of mountain water； the heroic traveller lies！
Down a dell of dewy myrtle； where the light is soft and green；
And a month like English April sits； an immemorial queen；
Let us think that he is resting … think that by a radiant grave
Ever come the songs of forest； and the voices of the wave！
Thus we want our sons to find him … find him under floral bowers；
Sleeping by the trees he loved so； covered with his darling flowers！
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AFTER MANY YEARS
THE song that once I dreamed about；
The tender； touching thing；
As radiant as the rose without …
The love of wind and wing …
The perfect verses； to the tune
Of woodland music set；
As beautiful as afternoon；
Remain unwritten yet。
It is too late to write them now …
The ancient fire is cold；
No ardent lights illume the brow；
As in the days of old。
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I cannot dream the dream again；
But when the happy birds
Are singing in the sunny rain；
I think I hear its words。
I think I hear the echo still
Of long…forgotten tones；
When evening winds are on the hill
And sunset fires the cones；
But only in the hours supreme；
With songs of land and sea；
The lyrics of the leaf and stream；
This echo comes to me。
No longer doth the earth reveal
Her gracious green and gold；
I sit where youth was once； and feel
That I am growing old。
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The lustre from the face of things
Is wearing all away；
Like one who halts with tired wings；
I rest and muse to…day。
There is a river in the range
I love to think about；
Perhaps the searching feet of change
Have never found it out。
Ah！ oftentimes I used to look
Upon its banks； and long
To steal the beauty of that brook
And put it in a song。
I wonder if the slopes of moss；
In dreams so dear to me …
The falls of flower； and flower…like floss …
Are as they used to be！
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I wonder if the waterfalls；
The singers far and fair；
That gleamed between the wet； green walls；
Are still the marvels there！
Ah！ let me hope that in that place
The old familiar things
To which I turn a wistful face
Have never taken wings。
Let me retain the fancy still
That； past the lordly range；
There always shines； in folds of hill；
One spot secure from change！
I trust that yet the tender screen
That shades a certain nook；
Remains； with all its gold and green；
The glory of the brook。
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It hides a secret to the birds
And waters only known：
The letters of two lovely words …
A poem on a stone。
Perhaps the lady of the past
Upon these lines may light；
The purest verses； and the last
That I may ever write。
She need not fear a word of blame …
Her tale the flowers keep …
The wind that heard me breathe her name
Has been for years asleep。
But in the night； and when the rain
The troubled torrent fills；
I often think I see again
The river in the hills；
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And when the day is very near；
And birds are on the wing；
My spirit fancies it can hear
The song I cannot sing。
The End