H e knew too that, if, after all, his labour should be lost, A nation would not have to bear the suffering and the cost; That if triumphant, 'twas success might greet each listening ear, Nor cause a single broken heart, nor one upbraiding tear. Then hail him on his safe return, with one applauding voice, W h o brings us news to sadden none, and all may make rejoice, W h o comes to tell that, 'spite our fears, the grass does not yet wave, O'er any spot the desert holds that leads to " Leichardt's grave ; " * No, happily, that mournful lay was prematurely sung, Though every heart that heard its tones was by it deeply wrung : Enough—thank Heaven, the Muse's tears have flowed in vain, and now The garland woven for his tomb, will twine around his brow !
MALWVN. Melbourne 14th April, 1846.
In June, 1845, a rumour reached Sydney that Leichardt and his party had been overpowered and murdered by a m o b of Aborigines. Though it was ultimately proved to be groundless, for a time it created a feeling of profound regret, and during the paroxysm the then Barrack-master of N e w South Wales, an intimate friend of the supposed dead Doctor, composed a beautifully pathetic lyric, which was published in the Sydney Herald. It was one of the four above referred to. It was written when there was some intention of despatching a search party, and now, as there can be no longer any question as to the terrible finale, it is wreathed in a mournful and no uncertain interest. LEICHARDT'S GRAVE. Ye who prepare with pilgrim feet Your long and doubtful path to wend ; If—whitening on the waste—ye meet The relics of my murdered friend— His bones with rev'rence ye shall bear To where some mountain streamletflows; There, by its mossy bank, prepare The pillow of his long repose. It shall be by a stream whose tides Are drank by birds of ev'ry wing; Where ev'ry lovelier flower abides The earliest wak'ning touch of Spring. O meet that he—(who so carest All beauteous Nature's varied charms)— That he—her martyr'd son—should rest Within his mother's fondest arms ! When ye have made his narrow bed, And laid the good man's ashes there ; Ye shall kneel down around the dead, And wait upon your God in prayer. What, though no reverend man be near; N o anthem pour its solemn breath ; N o holy walls invest his bier With all the hallow'd pomp of death ! Yet humble minds shall find the grace, Devoutly bow'd upon the sod, To call that blessing round the place That consecrates the soil to God. And ye, the wilderness shall tell How, faithful to the hopes of men, The Mighty Power, he served so well, Shall breathe upon the bones again !
- T h e poem of that name by Mr. Lynd is here alluded to.
It is also n o w reprinted.
