Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook
I
The First Attempt to Reach the Shore
Where is the painter who shall paint for you,My Austral brothers, with a pencil steepedIn hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crewWho gazed on unknown shores—a thoughtful few—What time the heart of their great Leader leapedTill he was faint with pain of longing? NewAnd wondrous sights on each and every hand,Like strange supernal visions, grew and grewUntil the rocks and trees, and sea and sand,Danced madly in the tear-bewildered view!And from the surf a fierce, fantastic bandOf startled wild men to the hills withdrewWith yells of fear! Who’ll paint thy face, O Cook!Turned seaward, “after many a wistful look!”
II
The Second Attempt, Opposed by Two of the Natives
“There were but two, and we were forty! Yet,”The Captain wrote, “that dauntless couple throve,And faced our wildering faces; and I said‘Lie to awhile!’ I did not choose to letA strife go on of little worth to us.And so unequal! But the dying treadOf flying kinsmen moved them not: for wetWith surf and wild with streaks of white and blackThe pair remained.”—O stout Caractacus!’Twas thus you stood when Caesar’s legions stroveTo beat their few, fantastic foemen back—Your patriots with their savage stripes of red!To drench the stormy cliff and moaning coveWith faithful blood, as pure as any ever shed.
III
The Spot Where Cook Landed
Chaotic crags are huddled east and west—Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened seaThat cometh, like a troubled soul in questOf voiceless rest where never dwelleth rest,With noise “like thunder everlasting.”But here, behold a silent space of sand!—Oh, pilgrim, halt!—it even seems to beAsleep in other years. How still! How grand!How awful in its wild solemnity!This is the spot on which the Chief did land,And there, perchance, he stood what time a bandOf yelling strangers scoured the savage lea.Dear friend, with thoughtful eyes look slowly round—By all the sacred Past ’tis sacred ground.
IV
Sutherland’s Grave
’Tis holy ground! The silent silver lightsAnd darks undreamed of, falling year by yearUpon his sleep, in soft Australian nights,Are joys enough for him who lieth hereSo sanctified with Rest. We need not rearThe storied monument o’er such a spot!That soul, the first for whom the Christian tearWas shed on Austral soil, hath heritageMost ample! Let the ages wane with age,The grass which clothes this grave shall wither not.See yonder quiet lily! Have the blightsOf many winters left it on a faded tomb?*Oh, peace! Its fellows, glad with green delights,Shall gather round it deep eternal bloom!
* A wild lily grows on the spot supposed to be Sutherland’s grave.—H.K.