POETRY.
THE NATIVE-BORN.
1 LOOKED at him and I laughed. "What have you to offer ?" I said,—
" The moonlight-marvel of silver—or the glint of gold that is red, The priceless dazzle of diamonds, silks of a delicate hue, —Empty-hand and Lack-o'-Land—is it thus that you go to woo ? "
The brown of his eyes was dauntless; the tan of his cheek paled not.
"Love has grown grave in the Castle that smiled in the reed- thatched cot, And you say I have naught to offer, I, who am Native-Born, Heir to silver of countless stars and the rustless gold of morn ; I, who have watched from the mountain the hosts of the Lord grow dim, And seen day flush o'er the rivers where the monster saurians swim ; who have dusted the pollen of wattle sweets from my arm, And drunk the milk of the cocoanut I wrenched from the swaying palm ; I, who rippled the crystal creek in joy of the morning dip, Brushed the honey of native bees away from my bearded lip ; I, who have couched on the close green turf, walled in by the blackbutt trees, Trod a carpet of tall blue grass that swept to my dew-damp knees ; I, who have gathered diamonds that lurk in the buttercup, Snatched a pearl from a daisy's heart, where wand'ring brown moths sup;
1, who ride by the bridle track with no man to say me nay' To the rim of the mist-blue world, at shut of a burning day ; I, who can dream in the moss-hung scrub, sing to the grey belars, Gaze my fill at the Southern Cross, built high in an arch of stars ! I was born on the black-soil Downs, and rocked by the Southern
breeze, The kingdom I have to offer is wide to Pacific seas !
And the big grey spider banging from a branch of the swinging pine
Spins silk that were finest decking for a true sweetheart of mine! Let her take my hand and follow! The road to the Northward runs.
She shall have silver of moonlight—gold of Australian suns ! Was it Lack-o'-Land ye would call me ? I, who am Native-Born, Have beard the twittering parrakeets in stalks of the greening corn ; Have plucked the buds from the lucerne; pulled grapes from the laden vine.
Empty-of-hand and Lack-o'-Land ! Why, the whole wide earth is mine !"
I looked at him and I laughed. "But a maid asks more than this!
You think the key to magic doors is hid in a bridal kiss !
Trees would be only trees to her—she would crave a carven roof, The clashing of a city band for beat of the chestnut's hoof." The fire in his eyes died not ; the smile on his mouth larked yet. "Oh ! Greybeard, in a heart grown cold, it is easy to forget! Man calls, a woman follows (an' she love him) by ridge and deli, To the creak of the saddle leather—the lilt of a horse's bell. An' she care not . . . . the lighter does the chestnut hack go forth For plains of the purple vinca, the green of the sea-washed North. But Life of Life ! An' she love me . . . . our skies will be always blue, • And then I have much to offer, Greybeard, as I go to woo!"
I saw him cross the ranges, from shadow into the shine, And back came his gay voice floating : " Tho whole of the world is mine!"
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