Verses from Maoriland/Two Sides of a Question
TWO SIDES OF A QUESTION
IN AUSTRALIA
I
Oh, there’s Spring in the dazzling sunshine, and glory in the day,
And I, in this noisy city, am throwing my life away;
Nothing but walls around me, and pavement under my feet,
And it’s O for the old bush-life again, and the mountain breeze so sweet!
O for a glorious gallop on Coriander’s back
Once again, as in other days, along the Uralla track:—
My gallant horse for company, the bush with its myriad tongues,
The Sun, the space, the splendour, and the free fresh air in my lungs!
Somewhere out to the Northward, there is the place for me,—
Miles upon miles of white-gum, and, as far as your eye can see,
Rolling ranges on ranges, and monarch of them all,
Indigo in the distance, the summit of Mount Duval.
And the yellow wattle’s in blossom, and the bush sarsaparilla
Twists and clings, and wreathes and swings from gum-tree pillar to pillar;
Soldier-birds chatter and squabble up in a bottle-brush tree,
And a solemn old Laughing-Jackass looks down and cackles at me.
Ant-hills, red and yellow, gleam thro’ the ragged stems,
And everlasting daisies show their golden diadems,
There’s maidenhair in the cracks of the rocks where the sly snake basks in the sun,
And magpies whistle their sweetest for joy of the day begun.
Push, and crowd, and jostle! jostle, and crowd, and push!
O to be out of the turmoil away in the quiet Bush!
Away from the roar and rattle, away from the dirt and din,
The beggar’s whine, and the pious fraud, sorrow, disease, and sin.
O voice of the Bush that is calling, and calling again, again!
O many-toned voice of the Bush! must you call to me always in vain?
Shall I never be able to follow to the land that is far and fair?
O who could bide in the city, who was born and bred out there?
II
There’s storm coming up the valley, there’s rain on the distant ranges,
And ever the wind in the gum-trees runs its gamut of mournful changes,
All in a minor key; and there’s gloom on earth, and in sky,
And of all things dismal, I think there is nothing more dismal than I!
Gum-trees, nothing but gum-trees! miles upon miles of them,
With here and there a solitary “box,” or a bottle-brush with its stem
Stunted out of proportion: Look! how the loose bark flaps!
Is it the dead in their winding-sheets? is it ghosts of the past perhaps?
Letters? I’ve had no letters for a weary week, or more;
A month-old paper’s a joy to me, I read it o’er and o’er.
What do I know of politics, of empires fall’n or risen,
Of strikes, or wars, or life, or laws, shut in my gum-tree prison?
Ignorant? I should think so! lost touch with wiser men;—
Live in the Bush, like me, a bit:—you’d lose your culture then!
It’s oh to pace the pavement, rub shoulders with the crowd,
Clasp hands again with fellow-men, hear greetings long and loud!
Sometimes indeed I dream a dream of the things I used to prize:—
The sound of a cultured voice again, the flash of a woman’s eyes,
The majestic roll of an organ, the wail of a violin,—
There’s something else in the city besides its sorrow and sin!
O this is a fair stagnation! I’m sick of the beastly Bush;
I’ve had too much of the weird white-gum, and the gloomy bottle-brush;
I somehow yearn for a kindred soul in place of a kangaroo,
And I reckon they’ll see me back in town in the course of a month or two.