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The Winged Mariners

Through the wild night, the silence and the dark,

Through league on league of the uncharted sky,

Lonelier than dove of fable from its ark,

The fieldfares fly.

Mate with his tiny mate, and younglings frail,

That only knew the crevice of their tree

Until, in faith stupendous, they set sail

Across the sea.

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Sic Vos Non Vobis

Ye, that the untrod paths have braved,

With heart and brain unbound;

Who ask not that your souls be saved,

But that the Truth be found;

Whose fiery cross is borne unseen,

Whose meek brows, bleeding but serene

With only thorns are crowned;

Who, still and steadfast, stand for Right,

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Influence

As in the deeps of embryonic night,

Out of unfathomable obscurities

Of Nature's womb, the little life-germs rise,

Pushing and pulsing upward to the light;

As, when the first day dawns on waking sight,

They leap to liberty and recognize

The golden sunshine and the morning skies

Their home and goal and heritage and right—

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On Australian Hills

Earth, outward tuning on her path in space

This pensive southern face,

Swathing its smile and shine

In that soft veil that day and darkness twine,

The silver-threa

ded twilight thin and fine,

With April dews impearled,

Looms like another and diviner world.

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The Mob

Why stand dumbfounded and aghast,

As at invading armies sweeping by,

Surprised by haggard face and threatening cry,

The storm unheralded, that rose so fast?

Men, with gaunt wives and hungry children, cast

Upon the wintry streets to thieve or die,

They cannot always suffer silently;

Patience gives out. The poor worm turns at last.

Ada Cambridge

All-Saints' Day (1867)

Blessed are they whose baby-souls are bright,

Whose brows are sealèd with the cross of light,

Whom God Himself has deign'd to robe in white—

Blessed are they!

Blessed are they who follow through the wild

His sacred footprints, as a little child;

Who strive to keep their garments undefiled—

Blessed are they!

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Dawnlight On The Sea

When I kneel down the dawn is only breaking;

Sleep fetters still the brown wings of the lark;

The wind blows pure and cool, for day is waking,

But stars are scattered still about the dark.

With open lattice, looking out and praying,

Ere yet the toil and trouble must be faced,

I see a silvery glimmer straying, straying,

To where the faint grey sky-line can be traced:

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Awake

Calm as that moonbeam on the wall,

Sleep broods on baby's eyes;

Arms, hush'd and still, but pulsing quick,

Enfold him as he lies;

My brain is full of thronging thoughts,

Strange passions thrill my breast,

My heart aches with a load of love

That will not let me rest.

Ada Cambridge

Holy Communion

Father, for Jesus' sake,

Low at the footstool of Thy throne, I pray

That Thou, into Thine arms of love, to-day

My trembling soul wilt take.

Thine eyes can see, I know,

How many a dark and fearful spot of sin

Stains the white garment Thou didst clothe it in,

Once undefiled as snow.

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Empty

Can this be my poem?—this poor fragment

Of bald thought in meanest language dressed!

Can this string of rhymes be my sweep poem?

All its poetry wholly unexpressed!

Does it tell me of the dreams that wandered,

In the silent night-time, through my brain?

Of the woven web of wondrous fancies,

Half of keenest joy and half of pain?

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To-morrow

The lighthouse shines across the sea;

The homing fieldfares sing for glee:

"Behold the shore!"

Alas for shattered wing and breast!

The lighthouse breakers make their nest,

And hedges bloom for them no more—

No more.

In their old church the lovers stand.

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Dead

"On board the Petrel, in St. Lucia's bay,

Of yellow fever—aged twenty-nine."

"Who did you say, my lady?" drawled the Earl.

"The duke—what duke?"

"I did not speak of dukes,"

Replied the Countess slowly, white and grim,

Pressing the rustling sheet between her palms,

The while her diamonds heaved upon her breast,

Ada Cambridge