Lyra Australis: Or, Attempts to Sing in a Strange Land

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Bickers & Bush, 1854 - 298 pages
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Page 105 - I aai so very thirsty, I will drink of even it ! QUEEN IN A. NOT here ; far away, Where the dolphins play, She sitteth alone, On a coral throne, With string of pearls Her golden curls Adorning ; And she gaily sings, And her voice hath wings, And flieth away, On the pearly spray, She loveth to dress Her sunlit tress With flowers of ocean-birth, From a briny...
Page 220 - ... back, A pledge renewed, a link more firmly driven Of the eternal world, and of His love, Who took thee gently from my arms to prove That thou wert not all mine, nor only given To fill my soul's deep lack. For this re-granted bliss Is not a sacrifice to God meet now ? What shall it be, my heart — thy first, best gift ? Ah ! now thou shrink'st for God a hand to lift On thine own Isaac, and to plight the vow Which seals him ever His, And thy faith-trial completes. But rear thine altar, and thy...
Page 219 - I pressed thee first, Thou wert a cooling stream to my soul's thirst, That sank as rain unto its hot dry sands Until the desert smiled. But now I take thee back, A pledge renewed, a link more firmly driven Of the eternal world, and of His love, Who took thee gently from my arms to prove That thou wert not all mine, nor only given To fill my soul's deep lack. For this re-granted...
Page 297 - LEAKEY. [Thu well-known Tasmanian poetess published a volume entitled Lyra Australia; or. Attempts to Sing in a Strange Land (London : Bickers & Bush, 1854).] FINIS. MY little lamp, farewell ! My nights have passed away Like a quiet day, And thou their gentle sun. Farewell to midnight hours, Pleasant through all their pain ; In gladness I have lain Watching thy tiny ray. Farewell, thy kindly aid ! With thee must go along My time of secret song And tuneful solitude.
Page 133 - Ho ! a sail in sight — there's a ship ill sight, And she is homeward bound ; With a fairy breeze, from the Southern seas, She seeketh English ground. There's a ship in sight, — on her wings of light, She skims the ocean's face ; She leaves us behind, like the forest hind That mocks the huntsman's chase. She is scarce in sight, we have tracked her flight, She fadeth quick from view ; She's a speck of light in the sunshine bright, She is out of sight, we have lost her quite, — She seeketh English...
Page 220 - I now thou shrink'st for God a hand to lift On thine own Isaac, and to plight the vow Which seals him ever His, And thy faith-trial completes. But rear thine altar, and thy lamb lay there ; Uplift thy slaying arm — when, lo ! behold Thy God, heard in that angel-voice of old, Directs thine eye unto the thicket where Thine Isaac's ransom bleats, It would be ever thus If we, 0 God, our heart-wills unto Thine Could learn, ungrudgingly, to bring ; the deed Might then be spared which makes us so to bleed...
Page 218 - That stirred not a flower, Nor drooping leaf? Not so the flutter of thy passing soul, Though fainter than the summer breath, which stirs Never the nest-strayed feather caught on burrs, For it would in me rouse a tempest-roll Of never-ceasing grief ! He stirs ! Lie still, my heart ! Thou who through these long hours hast quiet lain, Till I did think the fate that for this child Is feared had passed on thee — why now be wild, Leaping within my breast, as thou wert fain From thy pained sleep to start...
Page 217 - 0, it is the first of May ! " THE CRISIS. WITH what an anguished sufferance I watch.— 0 God, if he should wake to sleep no more !— O God, if he should sleep to wake no more !— Striving his faint heart's slowest throb to catch, Mine own hath ceased to beat. My child, what, at the hour, If thou shouldst...
Page 294 - I am, 0, how thirsty ! but that cup is drained dry. They tell me of another thing, Which hath a still more silent wing, And it flappeth o'er the weary, Till it fans away their breath; Its shadows are upon me,—I feel that fluttering wing. And singeth by the weary; But He singeth them to death! Ah! He hath mercy on me,—hark ! He singeth by me now. They tell me of another finger, Which o'er darker walls doth linger, Pressing down the heavy eye, But sealing it for ever I Mine eye is, O, how heavy!
Page 292 - O, how weary ! but it passeth o'er uiy head. They tell me of a gentle one, That cometh when the day is done, And singeth by the weary, Till she singeth them to sleep, — I am, O, how weary ! but she will not sing to me. And they tell me of a finger, Which doth o'er walls of darkness linger, Pressing down the heavy eye, Till it falleth off to sleep, — Mine eye is, O, how heavy ! but no finger sealcth it.

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