After all, the Muses are great
travellers, and the same foot that stirred the Cumnor cowslips may some
day brush the fallen gold of the wattle blossoms and tread delicately
over the tawny bush-grass.

Mr. Sladen has, of course, a great belief in the possibilities of
Australian poetry. There are in Australia, he tells us, far more writers
capable of producing good work than has been assumed. It is only
natural, he adds, that this should be so, 'for Australia has one of those
delightful climates conducive to rest in the open air. The middle of the
day is so hot that it is really more healthful to lounge about than to
take stronger exercise.' Well, lounging in the open air is not a bad
school for poets, but it largely depends on the lounger. What strikes
one on reading over Mr. Sladen's collection is the depressing
provinciality of mood and manner in almost every writer. Page follows
page, and we find nothing but echoes without music, reflections without
beauty, second-rate magazine verses and third-rate verses for Colonial
newspapers. Poe seems to have had some influence--at least, there are
several parodies of his method--and one or two writers have read Mr.
Swinburne; but, on the whole, we have artless Nature in her most
irritating form. Of course Australia is young, younger even than America
whose youth is now one of her oldest and most hallowed traditions, but
the entire want of originality of treatment is curious. And yet not so
curious, perhaps, after all. Youth is rarely original.

There are, however, some exceptions. Henry Clarence Kendall had a true
poetic gift. The series of poems on the Austral months, from which we
have already quoted, is full of beautiful things; Landor's Rose Aylmer is
a classic in its way, but Kendall's Rose Lorraine is in parts not
unworthy to be mentioned after it; and the poem entitled Beyond Kerguelen
has a marvellous music about it, a wonderful rhythm of words and a real
richness of utterance. Some of the lines are strangely powerful, and,
indeed, in spite of its exaggerated alliteration, or perhaps in
consequence of it, the whole poem is a most remarkable work of art.

Down in the South, by the waste without sail on it--
Far from the zone of the blossom and tree--
Lieth, with winter and whirlwind and wail on it,
Ghost of a land by the ghost of a sea.
Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it;
Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey;
Phantom of light is the light on the face of it--
Never is night on it, never is day!
Here is the shore without flower or bird on it;
Here is no litany sweet of the springs--
Only the haughty, harsh thunder is heard on it,
Only the storm, with a roar in its wings!

Back in the dawn of this beautiful sphere, on it--
Land of the dolorous, desolate face--
Beamed the blue day; and the beautiful year on it
Fostered the leaf and the blossom of grace.
Grand were the lights of its midsummer noon on it--
Mornings of majesty shone on its seas;
Glitter of star and the glory of moon on it
Fell, in the march of the musical breeze.