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 Hands white, without a blot, Told us that he was not One of ‘the vulgar.’ What can those cyphers be?— Two only, J and C, Carved in his agony Deep in the mulga.

Was there no woman’s face Whose sunny smile might chase Clouds from above him? No bosom white as snow? No lips to whisper low, ‘Why doth he seek to go? Do I not love him?’

Haunted by flashing charms— White bosoms, rounded arms, Lips of fair ladies— Striving to break some link: Was ’t that which made him sink, Dragged by the curse of drink Deeper than Hades?

Now, wind across the grave, Tuning a sultry stave, Drearily whistles; Stirring those branches where Two silent cyphers stare— Two letters of a prayer: God’s Son’s initials.