While The Billy BoilsSearchOh! give to me the little sprayOf wattle, grown so far away!I’ll hold it with a loving hand,Indeed thou canst not understandAll it will speak to me!
Only a spray of wattle-bloom,Looking at me amid the gloomOf city smoke, and dust, and glare,—Drooping in uncongenial air,—A spray of wattle-bloom.
Friend of the city, not to theeSpeaketh the blossom as to me;Thou canst admire its buds of gold,Its feathered leaflets manifold,Its subtle perfume rare.
But every tiny bud and leafWhispers to me in tender grief,—“Sweet soul that loved the forest so,Wherein our myriad blossoms blow,What has become of thee?
“Dost thou remember as of oldThe wattle wears its garb of gold?The grasses and the flowers are there,All that to thee was once so fair,So short a time ago?
“The same deep winds, from o’er the leas,Swing their fresh music thro’ the trees,The same swift depths of river glideFrom out the snowy mountain side,And flow on to the sea.
“The sough of branches softly stirred,—The wild sweet note of forest bird,The browsing herd upon the plain,—Surely thy soul is sick with pain,As thus I speak to thee!”
Ah! little flower I loved of old,Dear little downy heads of gold!Truly, mine eyes are full of tears,As, o’er the long dividing years,The past comes back to me.
Surely thou knowest not from home,—Thy home and mine,—I willing roam?Ah! couldst thou guess how fancy fliesTo far bush shades and forest skies,Amid the city stones.
I ween not so reproachfullyThy budded leaves would speak to me;But thou wouldst ask a kindly fate,To send thy blossom, ere too late,To tell the truth of me.
Not for a day can I forgetThe haunts, resigned with such regret.No season to its grave is led,With all the dear ghosts of its dead,Without me there to see.
And when the sunset, rich and still,Swims on that river from the hill,With it my spirit downward glidesAmong the drift upon its tides,And follows to the sea.
And all the long-drawn winds that fly,—The pure, strong currents of the sky,—Imagination brings them back,And leads me o’er a golden track,Beset with memories!
I see the far, old forest still,And my worn spirit drinks its fill.Soft recollections bring to meThe silence and the harmony,The solitude and peace!
And all the strange weird notes that ringWith flutters of a passing wing;The sweet, wild wilfulness of song,That taunts us as we steal along,Where nestlings chirp unseen.
All is as beautiful to-day,As if again I roamed that way;The head once laid on Nature’s heart,Needeth no messenger to start,The strains of memory!
And yet I thank thee, dearest flower,Thou comest in a troubled hour,To whisper ’mid the city’s roar,—“Its noise is not for evermore,The bush-wilds wait for thee!”