Song of the Future
’Tis strange that in a land so strong,So strong and bold in mighty youth,We have no poet’s voice of truthTo sing for us a wondrous song.
Our chiefest singer yet has sungIn wild, sweet notes a passing strain,All carelessly and sadly flungTo that dull world he thought so vain.
‘I care for nothing, good nor bad,My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,I am but sifting sand,’ he said:What wonder Gordon’s songs were sad!
And yet, not always sad and hard;In cheerful mood and light of heartHe told the tale of Britomarte,And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard.
And some have said that Nature’s faceTo us is always sad; but theseHave never felt the smiling graceOf waving grass and forest treesOn sunlit plains as wide as seas.
‘A land where dull Despair is kingO’er scentless flower and songless bird!’But we have heard the bell-birds ringTheir silver bells at eventide,Like fairies on the mountain side,The sweetest note man ever heard.
The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth;The bronzewing pigeons call and cooBeside their nests the long day through;The magpie warbles clear and strongA joyous, glad, thanksgiving song,For all God’s mercies upon earth.
And many voices such as theseAre joyful sounds for those to tell,Who know the Bush and love it well,With all its hidden mysteries.
We cannot love the restless sea,That rolls and tosses to and froLike some fierce creature in its glee;For human weal or human woeIt has no touch of sympathy.
For us the bush is never sad:Its myriad voices whisper low,In tones the bushmen only know,Its sympathy and welcome glad.
For us the roving breezes bringFrom many a blossom-tufted tree—Where wild bees murmur dreamily—The honey-laden breath of Spring.
. . . . .
We have no tales of other days,No bygone history to tell;Our tales are told where camp-fires blazeAt midnight, when the solemn hushOf that vast wonderland, the Bush,Hath laid on every heart its spell.
Although we have no songs of strife,Of bloodshed reddening the land,We yet may find achievements grandWithin the bushman’s quiet life.
Lift ye your faces to the skyYe far blue mountains of the West,Who lie so peacefully at restEnshrouded in a haze of blue;’Tis hard to feel that years went byBefore the pioneers broke throughYour rocky heights and walls of stone,And made your secrets all their own.
For years the fertile Western plainsWere hid behind your sullen walls,Your cliffs and crags and waterfallsAll weatherworn with tropic rains.
Between the mountains and the sea,Like Israelites with staff in hand,The people waited restlessly:They looked towards the mountains oldAnd saw the sunsets come and goWith gorgeous golden afterglow,That made the West a fairyland,And marvelled what that West might beOf which such wondrous tales were told.
For tales were told of inland seasLike sullen oceans, salt and dead,And sandy deserts, white and wan,Where never trod the foot of man,Nor bird went winging overhead,Nor ever stirred a gracious breezeTo wake the silence with its breath—A land of loneliness and death.
At length the hardy pioneersBy rock and crag found out the way,And woke with voices of to-day,A silence kept for years and years.
Upon the Western slope they stoodAnd saw—a wide expanse of plainAs far as eye could stretch or seeGo rolling westward endlessly.The native grasses, tall as grain,Were waved and rippled in the breeze;From boughs of blossom-laden treesThe parrots answered back again.They saw the land that it was good,A land of fatness all untrod,And gave their silent thanks to God.
The way is won! The way is won!And straightway from the barren coastThere came a westward-marching host,That aye and ever onward prestWith eager faces to the West,Along the pathway of the sun.
The mountains saw them marching by:They faced the all-consuming drought,They would not rest in settled land:But, taking each his life in hand,Their faces ever westward bentBeyond the farthest settlement,Responding to the challenge cryOf ‘better country further out.’
And lo a miracle! the landBut yesterday was all unknown,The wild man’s boomerang was thrownWhere now great busy cities stand.It was not much, you say, that theseShould win their way where none withstood;In sooth there was not much of bloodNo war was fought between the seas.
It was not much! but we who knowThe strange capricious land they trod—At times a stricken, parching sod,At times with raging floods beset—Through which they found their lonely way,Are quite content that you should sayIt was not much, while we can feelThat nothing in the ages old,In song or story written yetOn Grecian urn or Roman arch,Though it should ring with clash of steel,Could braver histories unfoldThan this bush story, yet untold—The story of their westward march.
. . . . .
But times are changed, and changes rungFrom old to new—the olden days,The old bush life and all its waysAre passing from us all unsung.The freedom, and the hopeful senseOf toil that brought due recompense,Of room for all, has passed away,And lies forgotten with the dead.Within our streets men cry for breadIn cities built but yesterday.
About us stretches wealth of land,A boundless wealth of virgin soilAs yet unfruitful and untilled!Our willing workmen, strong and skilledWithin our cities idle stand,And cry aloud for leave to toil.
The stunted children come and goIn squalid lanes and alleys black;We follow but the beaten trackOf other nations, and we growIn wealth for some—for many, woe.
And it may be that we who liveIn this new land apart, beyondThe hard old world grown fierce and fondAnd bound by precedent and bond,May read the riddle right and giveNew hope to those who dimly seeThat all things may be yet for good,And teach the world at length to beOne vast united brotherhood.
. . . . .
So may it be, and he who singsIn accents hopeful, clear, and strong,The glories which that future bringsShall sing, indeed, a wond’rous song.