Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AUSTRALIA'S HERO, by JOHN LAURENCE RENTOUL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AUSTRALIA'S HERO, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: No! They didn't raise no statue - no - nor fix no big brass plate
Last Line: Attempt to carry a life-line to the shore.
Alternate Author Name(s): Gage, Gervais
Subject(s): Australia; Courage; Death; Heroism; Honor; Knights & Knighthood; Memory; Sailing & Sailors; Valor; Bravery; Dead, The; Heroes; Heroines


(Loquitur—in the Australian vernacular—Seth Bracken, son of Adam Bracken, selector.)

I

No! they didn't raise no statue—no—nor fix no big brass plate
At the corner, on the pillar, or Church-wall;
Nor they made no swell subscription for a widow desolate,
An' two kids that for their Daddy search an' call.

No! he wuz no prancin' Major toff, nor Kurnel o' dragoons,
Wi' the cock-tail flauntin' gaily at his crest,
Proudly glancin' roun' to catch the gaze of awe-struck girls an' loons,
All admirin' at the buttons on his breast.

'Sh, his father called him "Failure!"—for he didn't make a shine
At no poetry nor graftin' in the school:
(Now, great Gum, Clive's people dubbed him "Dunce," an' sent him "cross the Line,"
An' he showed the world a hero's not a fool!)

But his christened name wuz Arthur,—same they gev' the blameless king
No one knowed to be a king by coat or crown,
Yet, when danger struck, his deeds o' might set all men wondering,
So he silenced doubts o' traitor, coof, an' clown.

Yis, young Arthur didn't coddle, didn't "write," an' didn't stand
In for winnin' at no pawn-shop, like the Jew,
Nor at stocks an' shares, like Gentiles; so they put him "on the land,"
Which for honest work's a proper thing to do!

An' he joined no land-grab syndicate to "run" a fatman Church,
Suckin' in the trustin' public's wherewithal,
Jist to leave them wrecked an' pillaged in the wild financial lurch,
An' responsible for "first" an' "second call."

But he ploughed a clean-cut furrow, where his seed-potatoes fell
Neat an' reg'lar as the teeth o' cross-bred ewe;
An' the wheat on his "selection," as the eye from far could tell,
Wuz an even growth, wi' docks an' thistles few.

Soon his face got tanned an' bronzy wi' the honest Southern Sun
An' the Northwind searchin' keen through range an' flat;
Bet, the rain wuz all too scanty, so umbrella he had none,
On his head wuz hitched a slouch-sun-downer hat.

O, he had a mighty wrastle once to push his hands inside
Jist the only pair o' gloves he ivver owned;
It wuz on Peg's marriage-mornin', an' she laughed until she cried,
But he stood up to his dooty, an' jist groaned.

Ugh! we strained an' tugged perspirin', an' we squeezed to get them on,
But they came off window-holed at palm an' wrist;
And he laughed an' chuckled hearty:—"Now, that fooldom's done an' gone,
I'll grip on to work wi' naked, manful fist!"

Yis, he had his trousers' pockets, 'stead o' gloves, when hands wuz chill,
An' he whistled as if Life meant, "Take it slow!"
But when work wuz on the hands leapt out, an' did it wi' a will,
An' the thing wuz done afore you'd time to know.

For young Arthur didn't coddle, didn't pose, an' didn't stand
Up in furs an' rings an' glitter, like the Jew,
Nor in masherdom, like Gentiles; so they put him on the land,
Which for Manhood is a wholesome thing to do!

An' he nivver lured a woman's love to use an' then betray,
Nor besmirched no girl's young soul wi' sin an' shame,
Nivver blistered his own memory wi' scars that sting an' stay,—
Awesome inside hells o' everlastin' blame!

An' he didn't sling no langwidge which a mother mightn't set
To her youngsters to legitimately spell;
Didn't parse no moods an' tenses from the Devil's black Gazette,
Nor make paradigms from all the verbs o' hell.

When the dull fools mocked Religion, an' the clever fools made light
O' the meanin's writ on all the worlds that roll,
He would only smile, an' question:—"Hev' ye seen the stars at night,
Or the clearer stars a shinin' in Man's soul?"

When the bullock-driver's waggon, in the glue-pot on the track,
Up the ranges, stuck, an' fluent oath an' yell
O' coagulated blasphemy, above each strainin' back,
Through an orchestra o' thundery lashes fell,—

He would say:—"Now put yerself, a space, neck-shackled, in the yoke,
Wi' a bullock, but two-handed, set to drive,
Wi' a pistol-shotted stockwhip, an' an oath to grease the stroke,
An' at times a kick to ask ye how ye thrive!

"Man, ye don't admire the slaver when he spills his anger out
On the slave that's tied triangled to the wood;
An' ye don't much love the Rooshian when he swings his knotted knout,
An' then damns the wretch for wincin' in his blood!

"There's a sort o' silent godlikeness within a creature's eyes,—
When the forces crush, then curse, it in its pain,—
That reminds one o' the Christ-face lifted dumb to dark'nin' skies
When the hootin's made the Cross-nails stab again!"

II

P'rhaps at two main points young Arthur got a trifle swelled o' knob,—
Proud o' property, though not in gear or land,—
One, his trusty Scottish collie; one, his staunch Australian cob:
For their shapin', seemed, the Univarse wuz planned!

An' the cob, he wer' a daisy!—fine o' head, an' clean o' limb,
Shoulders broad, an' brisket firm, an' round o' girth,
Quarters square: an' Arthur sat his back wi' poise so light an' trim,
Man, it seemed a flash o' Natur's general mirth!

"Why the white streak by his withers?"—That brings back the big bush-fire,
When it flamed down through the forest to the sea
Scorchin' leagues o' land to cinder, as if Hell's outburst o' ire
Spat its curse on bluff an' gully, hill an' tree.

It wuz Arthur, ridin' Brownie, that plunged through the blazin' ring
As it closed round Rooney's hut, along the creek,—
Fetchin' wife an' child out safely, though a burnin' branch's swing
Left a "well-done!" scar on neck an' chin an' cheek.

An' a fallin' flare o' gum-tree made brave Brownie reel an' sway,
For an instant, but he swerved an' kept his feet;
That white rose he'll wear through life-time, in the night an' in the day,
Sort o' laurels o' that gallop wild an' fleet.

III

But Spring equinox wuz on us, veerin' squalls o' Ninety-One,
An' the sea-birds lifted landwards wedged for flight,
Though we felt the sweet Spring-promise through the young September run,
An' the creeks took in a larger spell o' light.

From the ragged rim of Otway cliffs we watched the steamers pass
On their long trudge to the Homelands far away:
At sich sight strange visions rise an' glance, as in a swingin' glass,
An' a heart-throb chokes the words ye want to say.

Westward, great "white horses" tost their manes against the settin' sun,
An' the masts dipt down an' sank amid its light;
While the smoke-trail stretched its long farewell on sky an' waters dun,
An' the far sea moaned away into the night.

But the crafts that gleam like things o' joy, wi' motion free an' glad,
When the Sun's laugh brightens sail an' hull an' wave,
As one gazes out to seaward, somehow make me lone an' sad,—
Siren voices still sing sailors to their grave!

For the ships loom up from S'uth'ard, the long journey almost done;—
Hearts are dazed wi' shock o' wave an' lash o' foam,
Wi' the lonesome nights o' darkness an' the days o' blindin' sun,
An' a sudden thirst for harbour an' for home.

An' they seem to lose their balance, lose their caution an' regard,
'Mid the shiftin' breath an' glint o' cliff an' sand;
So they won't be warned or startled by the doom o' the "Loch Ard,"
Or the drama o' the skurryin' "Cumberland."

IV

Fell the night afore the Sabbath, wi' a haze on sea an' shore,
An' some eerie sound o' wail was in the wind;
An' in front the surge swung beachward wi' an angry snarl an' roar,
An' a moan wuz in the gum-tree heights behind.

Ho! the full-rigged barque, the "Fiji," had beat up from South to land,
Like a sea-bird poised on wings o' glisterin' white,
An' her stowage oddest mixture human fooldom ivver planned—
Brandy, childer's toys, pianners, dynamite!

New to these strange shifty waters, wi' their currents fierce an' strong,
Yet they didn't heed the Heavens' deepenin' frown,
Nor the cur'ous kind o' cryin' that wuz in the spindrift's song
As the gloamin' dusked, an' night-time gathered down.

What on airth possessed that skipper, light a point to weather bow,
Drivin' onward to that fatal Otway reef?—
Wi' the great South swell to starboard, an' to leward breakers now,
An' they do their work, an' prompt, wi' warnin' brief!

So, wi' sails full set ('cept royals) through the night she speeds to doom,
An' she "misses stays" an' staggers on to shore;
An' the strong South Sea swings landward, an', 'mid Ocean's shock an' boom,
Sure, they know she'll win to haven nivver more.

There's a time in Ocean sailin'—life o' ship or life o' man—
When the chance o' steerin' true is jist too late;
No use now to curse yer fooldom, so ye do the best ye can,
Watch it comin', set yer teeth, an' bide yer fate!

When the cold gray streaks o' mornin' cast a glimmer on the scene,
Wi' the barque's prow pointin' hindwards to the shore,
Yellow sand-surf seethin' upward through the foam-ridged walls o' green,
'Mid the surges' shock, an' wild winds' hoot an' roar—

Man, the stoutest heart wuz daunted, and the bravest voice was dumb!
Juts o' rock rose loomin' through the pallid light
'Mid the Ocean-swirl that baffles, an' the waves that chill an' numb,
Makin' day more black an' dismal than the night.

Rockets' flare an' blue lights' gleam had failed to fetch an' answerin' sign;
Wheel an' rudder broke like spindrift out to sea;
Boats were stove to matchwood splinters ere they bottomed on the brine:
An' a wilder fear caused other fears to flee!—

For that strainin' mine o' dynamite inside the hatches' den
Might flash out a sudden summons scant o' grace;
An' the powdered brandy bottles an' the shreds o' what wuz men
Would perplex a crowner's inquest on the case!

Then the wild green waves loomed upward, like witch-crested walls o' doom,
Crashin' down to swing an' rear an' crash again;
An' the brave barque grindin' shuddered in the tempest's shock an' boom;
An' the bell kept knellin' time to shore an' main.

Faugh! the rats ran crowdin', squealin', thick as worms from soakin' soil,
Up from hold to light, an' scuttered o'er the deck:
Man, 'tis fearsome, Nature's kinship, man an' beast in common coil,
Common doom,—in plague, in bush-fire, or in wreck!

V

They were driven always for'ard to the verge o' foc'sle head,
By the shatterin' seas that beat on hull an' poop;
Then Gebhaur exclaimed:—"O lieber Gott, we can at worst be dead,
But refuse to die like poultry in a coop!"

So the bright lad dived to shorewards through the swirlin' surge an' foam;
But they had to haul him back again aboard;
Scuddin' squalls made yappin' yeasty seas more madly crest an' comb,
An' the more men prayed the louder Ocean roared.

Carkland,^1^ too, was brave, to test his fate on that forlorn emprise,
But the back-wash caught an' swept his life away;
They could see his arms flung upward 'neath the circlin' sea-gulls' cries:
An' the hours dragged on, an' broadened into day.

Sure, the German valour proved its pluck in that wild hell o' doom
Jist as high as any valour God has made,
Soon the naked plunge o' young Gebhaur through surf an' blindin' spume
Said, again, to shiverin' hearts:—"Be not afraid!"

O, the struggle wi' the breakers as they tost him to an' fro!
Mates, in frenzy, laughed to watch the battle brave;
Now he touched the beach, the wave lashed back, the traitor under-tow
Sucked him down, it seemed, an' heaped him in his grave.

But he rose an' struck, the swayin' line fanked on a jut o' rock,
An' sundered; an', like demons loosed for play,
Hurtlin' billows flung him high ashore out-worn wi' sickenin' shock,
An' the last hope o' the wrecked men died away.

As they clung, a drenched an' sodden swarm, along the bowsprit's length,
Ring'd around wi' angry sky an' shore an' wave,
Sick an' chill o' numbin' heart's blood an' wi' freezin' muscle-strength,
Underneath them yawned the short shrift o' a grave!

VI

But the news went spreadin' through the Bush,—"A wreck'd ship on the reef!"
An' the scattered settlers drew from far an' near,
Sich a piteous knot o' baffled men, all helpless o' relief,
An' dumbfounded at that sight o' woe an' fear.

Now the ship wuz plainly breakin'; so stout Punken left his hold,
Plungin' naked in the smother o' the tide,
An' it swung him this way, that way—ship-wright staunch but numbed wi' cold:
Wilder venture desp'rate swimmer nivver tried!

O, jist then strode Arthur for'ards, wi' that "vision" in his eyes
Like the wise look o' some dumb thing in its pain,
An' his glance took in the shore an' sea, an' all the darkenin' skies:
Man, that look I nivver want to see again!

Jist like some strange Prophet gazin' lonesome, steadfast, stern, an' glad—
On beyond where broken waves an' hearts can be:
An' they held him—they that knowed him—shoutin': "Arthur, man, ye're mad!
Mortal man can nivver win thro' sich a sea!"

But he pushed them back, an' pointed—ay, God's sentence seemed to run
Calm an' awesome through that steady human cry:—
"There are six an' twenty men out there! My life, it is but one!
An' a life for all those lives should risk to die!"

O, he wuz a gallant swimmer! From his school-days in Geelong
He had loved to cleave the wave an' test the tide;
But it makes a mighty differ, hurtlin' breakers fierce an' strong,
An' the storm-rack on the Ocean wild an' wide!

Yet he reached the drownin' seaman, an' felt round him for the line;
God o' Heaven! he had cast the line away!
Fiends, an' Fate, an' human folly,—all seemed leagued in dark combine
To defeat the hopes o' Man that awesome day.

Then, wi' strong foot-stroke, slim Arthur drove the seaman in to shore
Near to stretchin' hands,—a long linked chain o' men;
It seemed done an' won: an' then—Great Christ!—wi' wild cliff-shakin' roar
Billows reared, an' leapt, an' sucked them out agen!

For a quarter-hour,—seemed tortured days,—that fight 'gainst tide an' storm
Held the gaze o' wonderin' beach an' wonderin' deck;
Then both swimmers, bruised an' spent, bedazed an' battered out o' form,
Spun out swirlin' on the sea-race, past the wreck.

But a loop-line, flung athwart the surge, fetched both to foc'sle head:—
That's the heart-break, Life's great venture done in vain!
An' the hootin' waves swept onward, as if fiends triumphant sped
Mockin' round them at Man's love, an' doom, an' pain.

Sure, they wrapt him in a blanket on the bit o' soakin' deck,
O, my great-heart Arthur, "Failure," proved outright!
An' the cliff—chalk-marked wi' "HELP IS COMIN'!"—seemed to jeer an' gek,
Jubilatin' at man's puzzlement an' plight.

VII

Tell me, why at slow Port Campbell did they let Time's fateful sand
Trickle out from mornin' prime till long past four?—
When, at last, some "safety-tackle" got across the Gellibrand,
Hope or chance to "save the lost" was well-nigh o'er.

An', when Evans' horses gallopt up, to'ard gloamin' o' the day,
"Cradle","carrier","tail-block","hawser",—none wuz there!
Jist a "whip-line", "tripod", "rockets": an' the wreck out yonder lay!
An' men's souls sank baffled down in black despair.

Yet they shot that slender whip-line,—Oh, an' nivver gladder brand
Thrilled the dark wi' light!—athwart the bows it hung:
In the gloamin' o' the Sabbath eve sixteen got safe to land;
An' the haze o' night round cliff an' Ocean clung.

Sure, the second mate an' skipper chap came off the last of all,
An' left Arthur dazed an' "dyin'" to his fate,
Wi' the dark'nin' waves an' dark'nin' skies his purple funeral pall,
An' his bier the foc'sle head,—to lie in state.

An' they put on him no life-belt, they fixt to him no line,
But they swung off, man by man, an' let him lie;
When ye're s'archin' in the Scriptur' for Christ's law o' "mine" an' "thine"
Ye'll hev squirms 'bout what seems murder in God's eye!

Then a great sea smote, an' in its foam the "Fiji" passed from sight,
An' a hero died,—once more himself alone!
While the wild waves swept unhindered on into the deepenin' night,
An' the gum-tree heights gev' out a weirder moan.

When the body, gashed an' mangled, through the surf wuz tost to land,
'Twuz an ugly fact that made men look aghast,
For the drift an' shreds o' flotsam wuz gript tight in either hand:
He had fought Death—like a hero—to the last!

Yis, our Arthur didn't coddle, didn't shirk, an' didn't whine,
But he died for men—like God Almighty's few;
An' the men he died for left him to be battered in the brine,
Which—for "Failures"—seems a proper thing to do!

VIII

But another sort o' humans made an ant-track down the cliff,
Hustlin' eager to the wreckage on the beach;
An', where brandy-case swung shoreward or smash'd bottle sent its sniff,
There wuz throats to gulp, an' scramblin' hands to reach:—

Some far strain from guzzlin' Noah, when he stranded on the Mount,
Saved from waters wi' his wanderin' Zoo an' Ark,
O' God's voices through the tempest nivver castin' the account
Though the Lord's bow bridged wi' tokens all the dark!

At the cliff-foot wrecked men lyin', sick an' numbed an' almost dead,
Others shieldin', warmin', rousin' them again;
While these ghouls in human visage round the lootage-heaps were spread,
As if God had done His potter's work in vain!

D'ye call it some "revarsion," lapsin' back to primal note,
Keel an' bilge o' bestial Caliban-like plan,
Wi' the huge Chimpanzee stomach an' the coarse Gorilla throat
All embedded in the framework o' a man?

No: ye shame both brute an' human, bird that sings on spray an' bough,
Ape that chatters o'er his nuts in forest shade,
Eagle pouncin' on his quarry,—feeds on crag his eaglets now!—
Man alone belies the plan by which he's made,

Wi' the type cut clear in Arthur, godlike call in heart an' soul,
An' the Christ-thrill for the needs o' men to die;
Then these worse than soakin' squidfish by the bungs that sprawl an' roll,
Though brave men in mortal danger near them lie!

No: they're not Australians! Jetsam o' the putrid human sea!
Scum from Old Lands' drink an' feudaldom an' crime!
We must cleanse from all sich garbage these new coast-lands o' the free,
An' raise Manhood fit for nobler kith an' clime!

I can understan' a devil, an' have pity for a dunce,
But I'm puzzled at these human sludge-an'-sod;
Sure, they're not worth damnin' always, and they're not worth savin' once,
So we hand them, wi' a scunner, on to God!

O, red blood o' father Adam! O, soft breast o' Mother Eve!
O, great God that flashed a soul through structured clay!
Sure Ye—all of Ye—were scandalised, Ye all had cause to grieve
For undoin' o' yer handiwork that day!

But Ye—all of Ye—were justified, the Eden-hope wuz crowned,—
It wuz worth the Mother's pang, the Cross's pain,—
When, amid the billows' hootin', wi' no cheerin' comrades round,
There! a man died so, to save men once again!

An' we—all of us—feel bigger, an' our blood a richer red—
Larger measurements o' Man that is to be—
By our knowin' Arthur livin', an' that Arthur now is dead,
For the sake o' men, unscared by hell or sea.

IX

Yis, I think o' great-heart Arthur when they're praisin' up "our boys,"
Or lamentin' that the breed is "peggin' out,"
Gettin' looser in the fibre, fit for naught but sport an' noise.
Not like heroes as old poets yarned about:

Like the men that fought wi' Carthage, or the Kings that raided Troy,
For a woman, or vendetta, or for wine:
O, great God, who put a soul in man to dare through pain or joy,
Sure, Ye did yer work too lastin' an' too fine—

For the breed to worsen downward by the change o' sun or seas,
By the lapse o' bits o' centuries o' Time:
Not for hate an' not for vengeance, not for bribe o' Heaven or ease,
Men can die to-day as brave as at the Prime!

X

Ah, the hut's gone somewhat shaky since he ceased from knockin' round,
At the gate no hum o' wholesome neighbour talk,
An' no man's foot at the meal-time, wi' a staunch home-comin' sound,
Now strikes crunchin' on the bit o' garden walk:

Yis, the gate where he an' she, at morn, glad-hearted stood to laugh
As the foal would canter round an' clear the rail,
Or the young lambs nose their mother, an' bore in their drink to quaff
Wi' a glutton wiggle-waggle o' their tail.

Man, the fence is bent an' broken, an' the weeds are in the wheat;
Scrub is chokin' up the clearin' here an' there,
An' its boughs are yearnin' landward, as wi' hands stretched to entreat
Jist some respite from harsh winds an' Ocean bare.

Ho! the great South-swell flings strandward, an' the billows sweep the reefs,
Jist the same storm-voices sough by sea an' shore;
But the kindly cheer o' Arthur's face, through human toils an' griefs,
It comes heart'nin' life an' liftin' loads no more.

An' there's jist a pair o' weary eyes that gaze through startled lids
When a man's foot on the sea-road's heard to fall;
There's jist a widow workin', an' a brace o' orphan'd kids
That sometimes for their Daddy cry an' call!

XI

(Spoken fifteen years after.)

O, ye've h'ard since then the valour o' staunch Hughes at Bonnie Vale,
Gropin' downward in the trait'rous flooded mine,
Through the swirlin' sludge an' darkness, wi' no lights by which to sail,
An' no cheerin' crowd to give him note or sign:

Jist on chance o' fetchin' rescue to one helpless alien man,
Hero too, in that strange lonesome rock-roof'd stope!
O, dear God! Ye mind the wonder, an' the thrill that leapt an' ran
Through Australia's furthest range an' mountain slope!—

"Varischetti's saved!" I count Saint Paul a tip-top hero soul
For that measure of a man he sets so high:
"Peradventure"—(next big bush-fire ye can test that Scriptur' scroll)—
"For the good man some would even dare to die."

An' young Cook,—ye've seen "The Nobbies"?—through the breakers swam to land,
Wi' the life-line, through the hell o' sand an' sea:
"Skipper asked me," laughed the youngster, "an' I took it for command,
Someone had to go, an' so it fell to me!"

Yis, I count this finer valour—courage to the god-like core—
Than the blood-red rage that gains a crown or star
For some toff, wi' hosts behind him, paintin' lands or seas wi' gore,
At some Blenheim, Waterloo, or Trafalgar!

XII

Sure, at all park-gates an' corners they are raisin' statues up
To the toffs that got the biggest pay an' place;
An',—at "speech-days," shows, an' ructions,—they present some silver cup
To the limbs an' chine that's top-dog in the race:

Or the men whose hands were redden'd or their rifles smokin' hot
From the blood o' fellow freemen, held at bay,
When the Few, that grasped for Fatherland by mountain-gap or cot
Freedom's banner, tottered downward in the fray.

I don't grudge them all their "glory"; but the prize o' Kingdom-come
It creates no noise o' shoutin' at the goal;
There's no cheerin' when God gives His cup and bids His "Welcome-home!"
To the men who play the hero wi' their soul.

Yis, the men—ofttimes the women—their memorials, dazzlin' white,
Stand beckonin' in our hearts down all the years!
An' we keep their names from dust-stain, an' their faces clean an' bright,
Wi' the breath o' prayer an' secret rain o' tears.

^FOOTNOTE^

^1^ "It's do or die, boys!" young Carkland shouted, and then dived into the surf, in a vain
attempt to carry a life-line to the shore.





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