Page:Facts and Fancies about Our "Son of the Woods", Henry Clarence Kendall and his Poetry (IA factsfanciesabou00hami).pdf/37

Rh But now he sleeps, the tired bard, The deepest sleep; and, lo! I proffer These tender leaves of my regard. With hands that falter as they offer."

This is a very remarkable poem, when we come to think of its minute description of a gifted intellect and a noble character, in the compass of a few verses. What reviewer of poetic work could so graphically and so eloquently portray, in a whole column of literary criticism, the characteristics of Harpur's poems as Kendall has done in this graceful tribute to the memory of the author of "A Storm among the Mountains."

Would that we had some bold, free-spirited men like Harpur among us now, for he wrote of Australia as "the Cradle of Liberty," which it was when he wrote about it. But the Cradle is empty, and Liberty, "thrice sweet and gracious goddess," has "turned her face to the wall," in her bereavement for her first-born, amidst her vast domains, for which at present she has no inheritor. She has cast her "pearls before swine" who have trampled them beneath their feet, and who would turn again and rend her.

But to return to Harpur. He also had the experience of the life austere "that ever seems to wait upon the man of letters here"—that is, where the fire and ardour of the poet must be, comparatively, quenched in the more prosaic work of journalism, simply to earn a livelihood. For the Muse waits on no man, but exacts instant and undivided attention to her "call," and will admit of no rival claims on the time or the mental energy of the mortal who would aspire to Fame as the recipient of Her favours. The moment of inspiration must be seized as "the pearl of great price" for the loss of which nothing else can compensate. And even then one must ignore the present and work for Eternity.