And the echoes of cliff and cave,
When the dark is keen where the storm hath been,

Fleet over the far-away grave.
And through the days when the torrid rays

Strike down on a coppery gloom.
Some spirit grieves in the perished leaves,

Whose theme is that desolate tomb.
No human foot, or paw of brute,
Halts now where the stranger sleeps ;

But cloud and star his fellows are,
And the rain that sobs and weeps.
36



AT EUROMA 37

The dingo yells by the far iron fellSj

The plover is loud in the range.
But they never come near to the slumberer here,

Whose rest is a rest without change.
Ah ! in his life, had he mother or wife.
To wait for his step on the floor ?
Did beauty wax dim while watching for him

Who passed through the threshold no more ?
Doth it trouble his head ? He is one with the dead ;

He lies by the alien streams ;
And sweeter than sleep is death that is deep

And unvexed by the lordship of dreams.
CHARLES HARPUR



\17HERE Harpur lies the rainy streams,

And wet hill-heads, and hollows weeping,
Are swift with wind, and white with gleams.
And hoarse with sounds of storms unsleeping.
Fit grave it is for one whose song

Was tuned by tones he caught from torrents,
And filled with mountain breaths, and strong,

Wild notes of falling forest currents.
So let him sleep ! the rugged hymns

And broken lights of woods above him !
And let me sing how sorrow dims
c The eyes of those that used to love him.
