Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/124

 Now waned the moon beyond complaining depths,

And as the dawn looked forth from showery woods

(Whereon had dropped a hint of red and gold)

There went about the crooked cavern-eaves

Low flute-like echoes, with a noise of wings,

And waters flying down far-hidden fells,

Then might be seen the solitary owl

Perched in the clefts, seared at the coming light,

And staring outward (like a sea-shelled thing

Chased to his cover by some bright, fierce foe),

As at a monster in the middle waste.

At last the great kingfisher came, and called

Across the hollows, loud with early whips,

And lighted, langhing, on the shepherd's hut,

And roused the widow from a swoon like death.

This day, and after it was noised abroad

By blacks, and straggling horsemen on the roads,

That he was dead "who had been sick so long,"

There flocked a troop from far-surrounding runs,

To see their neighbour, and to bury him;

And men who had forgotten how to cry

(Rough, flinty fellows of the native bush)

Now learned the bitter way, beholding there

The wasted shadow of an iron frame,

Brought down so low by years of fearful pain,

And marking, too, the woman's gentle face,

And all the pathos in her moaned reply

Of "Masters, we have lived in better days."

One stooped—a stockman from the nearer hills—

To loose his wallet-strings, from whence he took

A bag of tea, and laid it on her lap;

Then sobbing, "God will help you, missus, yet,"

He sought his horse, with most bewildered eyes,

And, spurring, swiftly galloped down the glen.

Where black Orara nightly chafes his brink,

Midway between lamenting lines of oak

And Warra's Gap, the shepherd's grave was built;

And there the wild dog pauses, in the midst

Of moonless watches, howling through the gloom