Early Poems (1859-70). Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook
I The First Attempt to Reach the Shore Where is the painter who shall paint for you, My Austral brothers, with a pencil steeped In hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crew Who gazed on unknown shores—a thoughtful few— What time the heart of their great Leader leaped Till he was faint with pain of longing? New And wondrous sights on each and every hand, Like strange supernal visions, grew and grew Until the rocks and trees, and sea and sand, Danced madly in the tear-bewildered view! And from the surf a fierce, fantastic band Of startled wild men to the hills withdrew With yells of fear! Who'll paint thy face, O Cook! Turned seaward, "after many a wistful look!" II The Second Attempt, Opposed by Two of the Natives "There were but two, and we were forty! Yet," The Captain wrote, "that dauntless couple throve, And faced our wildering faces; and I said 'Lie to awhile!' I did not choose to let A strife go on of little worth to us. And so unequal! But the dying tread Of flying kinsmen moved them not: for wet With surf and wild with streaks of white and black The pair remained."—O stout Caractacus! 'Twas thus you stood when Caesar's legions strove To beat their few, fantastic foemen back— Your patriots with their savage stripes of red! To drench the stormy cliff and moaning cove With faithful blood, as pure as any ever shed. III The Spot Where Cook Landed Chaotic crags are huddled east and west— Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened sea That cometh, like a troubled soul in quest Of voiceless rest where never dwelleth rest, With noise "like thunder everlasting." But here, behold a silent space of sand!— Oh, pilgrim, halt!—it even seems to be Asleep in other years. How still! How grand! How awful in its wild solemnity! This is the spot on which the Chief did land, And there, perchance, he stood what time a band Of yelling strangers scoured the savage lea. Dear friend, with thoughtful eyes look slowly round— By all the sacred Past 'tis sacred ground. IV Sutherland's Grave 'Tis holy ground! The silent silver lights And darks undreamed of, falling year by year Upon his sleep, in soft Australian nights, Are joys enough for him who lieth here So sanctified with Rest. We need not rear The storied monument o'er such a spot! That soul, the first for whom the Christian tear Was shed on Austral soil, hath heritage Most ample! Let the ages wane with age, The grass which clothes this grave shall wither not. See yonder quiet lily! Have the blights Of many winters left it on a faded tomb?* Oh, peace! Its fellows, glad with green delights, Shall gather round it deep eternal bloom! * A wild lily grows on the spot supposed to be Sutherland's grave.—H.K.
Henry Kendall’s other poems:
