Whispering in Wattle -Boughs
OH, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirred
And rustled by the scented breath of Spring;
Oh, the dreary wistful longing! Oh, the faces that are thronging!
Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering!
Oh, tell me, father mine, ere the good ship crossed the brine,
On the gangway one mute handgrip we exchanged,
Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn reckless boy,
Those petitions that in life were ne’er estranged?
Oh, tell me, sister dear—parting word and parting tear
Never passed between us: let me bear the blame—
Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I’ve shed
For the lips that lisped with mine a mother’s name.
Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend
In our boyhood, at the base of life’s long hill,
Are you waking yet or sleeping? Have you left this vale of weeping,
Or do you, like your comrade, linger still?
Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above?—
There is little hope or comfort here below;
On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is strait and cold—
Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow.
All silent—they are dumb—and the breezes go and come
With an apathy that mocks at man’s distress;
Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and pray
For an answer that might stay my bitterness.
Oh, harshly screams the bird, and the wattle-bloom is stirred;
There’s a sullen weird-like whisper in the bough:
‘Aye, kneel and pray and weep, but HIS BELOVED SLEEP
CAN NEVER BE DISTURBED BY SUCH AS THOU!’
Adam Lindsay Gordon
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