Victor James Daley

Good fellows are laughing and drinking (To-night no heart should grieve), But I am of old days thinking,

Ghosts walk the Earth, that rise not from the grave. The Dead Past hath its living dead. We see All suddenly, at times, and shudder then,

O the Queen may keep her golden Crown and sceptre of command! I would give them both twice over

The sun burns fiercely down the skies; The sea is full of flashing eyes; The waves glide shoreward serpentwise

Spellbound by a sweet fantasy At evenglow I stand Beside an opaline strange sea

Half waking and half dreaming, While starry lamps hung low I saw a vision splendid

A horseman on a hilltop green Drew rein, and wound his horn; So bright he looked he might have been

When the sap runs up the tree. And the vine runs o'er the wall, When the blossom draws the bee,

Once a poet, long ago, Wrote a song as void of art As the songs that children know,

We bought a volume of Anacreon, Defaced, mishandled, little to admire, And yet its rusty clasps kept guard upon

The pale discrowned stacks of maize, Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise,

On a golden dawn in the dawn sublime Of years ere the stars had ceased to sing, Beautiful out of the sea-deeps cold

The curtain rose, the play began, The limelight on the gay garbs shone; Yet carelessly I gazed upon

I pity him who has not swung The Thyrsus in the air, And followed Bacchus, blithe and young,

Bouquet said: 'My floral ring The homage of a heart encloses, Whose thoughts to you go worshipping

When trees in Spring Are blossoming My lady wakes

Camilla calls me heartless: hence you see Logic in love has little part. How can I otherwise than heartless be

Having certain cares to drown, To the sea I took them down: And I threw them in the wave,

O day, the crown and crest of all the year! Thou comest not to us amid the snows, But midmost of the reign of the red rose;

By his side, whose days are past, Lay bow and quiver! And his eyes that stare aghast

Day goeth bold in cloth of gold, A royal bridegroom he; But Night in jewelled purple walks,

The awful seers of old, who wrote in words Like drops of blood great thoughts that through the night Of ages burn, as eyes of lions light

Soul of the leaping flame; Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name

For some forty years, and over, Poets had with me their way; And they made me think that Sorrow

I have been dreaming all a summer day Of rare and dainty poems I would write; Love-lyrics delicate as lilac-scent,

Stand up, my young Australian, In the brave light of the sun, And hear how Freedom's battle

The days go by, the days go by, Sadly and wearily to die: Each with its burden of small cares,

It was a day of sombre heat: The still, dense air was void of sound And life; no wing of bird did beat

The day and its delights are done; So all delights and days expire: Down in the dim, sad West the sun

Fade off the ridges, rosy light, Fade slowly from the last gray height, And leave no gloomy cloud to grieve

It may have been a fragment of that higher Truth dreams, at times, disclose; It may have been to Fond Illusion nigher,

Once from the world of living men I passed, by a strange fancy led, To a still City of the Dead,

Say little: where she lies, so let her rest: What cares she now for Fame, and what for Art? What for applause? She has played out her part.

See how it flashes, This grape-blood fine! Our beards it splashes,

Over a slow-dying fire, Dreaming old dreams, I am sitting; The flames leap up and expire;

Through the noiseless doors of Death Three passed out, as with one breath. Two had faces stern as Fate,

What know we of the dead, who say these things, Or of the life in death below the mould, What of the mystic laws that rule the old

Love is the sunlight of the soul, That, shining on the silken-tress'd head Of her we love, around it seems to shed

(In Memory of Henry Kendall) Ah! that God once would touch my lips with song To pierce, as prayer doth heaven, earth's breast of iron,

'Wanted Kind Person to take charge of baby Boy (or Girl),' etc. - Any newspaper, any day. 'Early this morning the body of an infant was found on a doorstep in -- Street,' etc. - Any newspaper, every other day. Unto the Person kind there came

The Muse who comes each morning In rozy gauze is clad; Her head is crowned with flowers,

Ne'ra crowns me with a purple wreath That she with her own dainty hands did twine; Gold-hearted blossoms and blue buds in sheath,

The night is young yet; an enchanted night In early summer: calm and darkly bright. I love the Night, and every little breeze

With pen in hand and pipe in mouth, And claret iced to quench my drouth, I sit upon my balcony

What! Don't you our M'cenas know The man who started, years ago, Our Wild Australian Author show?

Very often, when I'm drinking, Of the old days I am thinking, Of the good old days when living was a Joy,

Choose who will the wiser part, I have held her heart to heart; And have felt her heart-strings stirred,

And after all, and after all, Our passionate prayers, and sighs, and tears, Is life a reckless carnival?

By a black wharf I stood lately, When the night was at its noon; Keen, malicious stars were shining,

These are the flowers of sleep That nod in the heavy noon, Ere the brown shades eastward creep

Soul, dost thou shudder at the narrow tomb? Heart, dost thou dread to moulder in the dust, To meet the fate that all things mortal must,

They say that fair Romance is dead, and in her cold grave lying low, The green grass waving o'er her head, the mould upon her breasts of snow; Her voice, they say, is dumb for aye, that once was clarion-clear and high,

Give thou a gift to me From thy treasure-house, O sea! Said a red-lipped laughing girl

If I were young as you, Sixteen, And you were old as I, I would not be as I have been,

What shall a man remember In days when he is old, And Life is a dying ember,

A child came singing through the dusty town A song so sweet that all men stayed to hear, Forgetting for a space their ancient fear

I am the Vision and the Dream Of trembling Age, and yearning Youth; I am the Sorceress Supreme.

I learnt the language of the birds, A new St Francis I would be; But, when I understood their words,

'Tis said that the Passion Flower, With its figures of spear and sword And hammer and nails, is a symbol

Lo, upon the carpet, where Throned upon a heap of slain Blue-eyed dolls of beauty rare

The narrow, thorny path he trod. 'Enter into My joy,' said God. The sad ascetic shook his head;

There is a saying of renown, "God made the country, man the town." Well, everybody to his trade!

The wan light of a stormy dawn Gleamed on a tossing ship: It was the In Memoriam

The days go by, the days go by, Sadly and wearily to die: Each with its burden of small cares,

All silent is the room, There is no stir of breath, Save mine, as in the gloom

Within his office, smiling. Sat JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN, But all the screws of Birmingham

It fell upon a summer night The village folk were soundly sleeping, Unconscious of the glamour white

The waters make a music low: The river reeds Are trembling to the tunes of long ago,

Methought I came unto a world-wide plain Where souls stood thick as grain at harvest-tide, And many reapers, full of pious pride,

Last night, as one who hears a tragic jest, I woke from dreams, half-laughing, half in tears; Methought that I had journeyed in the spheres

By the road, near her father's dwelling, There groweth a hawthorn tree: Its blossoms are fair and fragrant

Who are these strange small folk, These that come to our homes as kings, Asking nor leave nor grace,

Not only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world's sad martyrs

The red sun on the lonely lands Gazed, under clouds of rose, As one who under knitted hands

When the moon a golden-pale Lustre on my casement flings, An enchanted nightingale

The world was in my debt, I was the Friend of Man, When, years ago, I met

He sat beneath the curling vines That round the gay verandah twined, His forehead seamed with sorrow's lines,

Care is a Poet fine: He works in shade or shine, And leaves, you know his sign!

Once upon a hushed red morning In the wondrous years of old, When the sun rose like a Rajah

In my garden, O Beloved! Many pleasant trees are growing, Peach, and apricot, and apple,

Her gown was simple woven wool, But, in repayment, Her body sweet made beautiful

An apple caused man's fall, as some believe; But that old Snake, malevolently wise, A deadlier snare set when he left to Eve

There is a town in Ireland, A little town I know; Its girls have tender Irish eyes

There was a Boy, long years ago, Who hour by hour awake would lie, And watch the white moon gliding slow

In Youth, when through our veins runs fast The bright red stream of life, The Soul's Voice is a trumpet-blast

The Woman at the Washtub, She works till fall of night; With soap and suds and soda

When the tender hand of Night Like a rose-leaf falls Softly on your starry eyes;

They brought my fair love out upon a bier, Out from the dwelling that her smile made sweet, Out from the life that her life made complete,

We said farewell, my youth and I, When all fair dreams were gone or going, And Love's red lips were cold and dry.

There are three mighty Voices that alway Cry out to God to speed His Judgment Day. The Voice of Devils, weary long ago

They leave us - artists, singers, all When London calls aloud, Commanding to her Festival

Dedicated to Louis Becke You are now in London town, Louis Becke,

The old dead flowers of bygone summers, The old sweet songs that are no more sung, The rose-red dawns that were welcome comers