Darling, that in this life of wrong and woe, The lovely woman-soul within you brooded And wept and loved and hated and pitied, And knew not what its helplessness could do, Its helplessness, its sheer bewilderment— That then those eyes should fall, those angel eyes, On one who’d brooded, wept, loved, hated, pitied, Even as you had, but therefrom had sprung A hope, a plan, a scheme to right this wrong, And make this woe less hateful to the sun— And that pure soul had found its Master thus To listen to, remember, watch and love, And trust the dawn that rose up through the dark: O this was good For me to see, as for some weary hopeless Longer and toiler for “the Kingdom of Heaven” To stand some lifeless twilight hour, and hear, There in the dim-lit house of Lazarus, Mary who said: “Thus, thus, he looked, he spake, The Master!”—So to hear her rapturous words, And gaze upon her up-raised heavenly face!
WILLIAM WALLACE. (_For the Ballarat statue of him_.)
This is Scotch William Wallace. It was he Who in dark hours first raised his face to see: Who watched the English tyrant nobles spurn, Steel-clad, with iron hoofs the Scottish free:
Who armed and drilled the simple footman Kern, Yea, bade in blood and rout the proud Knight learn His Feudalism was dead, and Scotland stand Dauntless to wait the day of Bannockburn!
O Wallace, peerless lover of thy land, We need thee still, thy moulding brain and hand! For us, thy poor, again proud tyrants spurn, The robber rich, a yet more hateful band!
Pure blue flag of heaven With your silver stars, Not beside those crosses’ Blood-stained torture-bars:
Not beside the token The foul sea-harlot gave, Pure blue flag of heaven, Must you ever wave!
No, but young exultant, Free from care and crime, The soulless selfish England Of this later time:
No, but, faithful, noble, Rising from her grave, Flag of light and liberty, For ever must you wave!
Was it for nothing in the years gone by, O my love, O my friend, You thrilled me with your noble words of faith?— Hope beyond life, and love, love beyond death! Yet now I shudder, and yet you did not die, O my friend, O my love!
Was it for nothing in the dear dead years, O my love, O my friend, I kissed you when you wrung my heart from me, And gave my stubborn hand where trust might be? Yet then I smiled, and see, these bitter tears, O my friend, O my love!