Yet the bereaved one knows Jehovah gave
The spirit to the body to recall;
That 'tis the lot of all to fill a grave,

And that the best and brightest earliest fall:
Sadly he moans above the faded one,

Yet murmurs in his grief, "God's will be done!"

But when two hearts are severed by the blast,
By stern misfortune or by envious wrong;
Yet loving still and cherishing the past,

Feeling the tie which binds them still as strong
As when beneath some well-remembered tree,
They pledged their faith for life,-eternity.

'Tis this that makes a pang which will not sleep,
A fire which feeds upon the mortal frame,
A gloom unbroken which o'er all will creep,
And render day and night alike the same-
Bleak as the grave, which only brings redress,
Sad as a knell, and full of bitterness.

Sad as the feeling which on Peter stole

When the cock crew, the herald of his shame;
Dark as the cloud which fell on Brutus' soul
When Cæsar to his tent at midnight came;
Or on the heart of Adam when he knew
His Abel dead, and whose the hand which slew.

O, weight of woe the heart cannot unfold!
O, sorrow that the tongue cannot explain!
Thy pain more grievous is because untold,

Thy grasp is firmer on the heart and brain
Than any sorrow to which man is heir,

Though marked by hollow cheeks, and eyes which look despair.

R. SPENCER-BROWNE.

[Is a Queensland journalist of repute, and a well-known verse writer. He was encouraged to pursue literature by the poet Gordon, who expressed himself as highly pleased with "young Browne's" poetical efforts. He has edited the Townsville Herald, the Cooktown Herald, and the Brisbane Daily Observer. Mr. Browne has strong military leanings, and he received a commission in the Queensland Defence Force (Moreton Mounted Infantry). In order to perfect himself in this work, he visited England and studied at Aldershot. While in England he did some successful journalistic work, and was appointed special correspondent for the Daily Chronicle at the Melbourne Exhibition.]

A SEA-GULL IN SHORE.

("A white sea-gull was seen yesterday by a party of drovers on the Flinders River. How the bird managed to wander so far inland is difficult of explanation, seeing that we have not recently had any bad weather on the coast."-Queensland Paper.)

WHAT are the tidings you bring to me,
O white-winged messenger of the sea?
The desert air by your flight is stirred,
Your mystic cry through the night is heard,
And where are you drifting, stranger bird?
In grief or glee?

Why have you left the ocean fair,

That pure sweet life in its soft salt air?
To wander here, where the days are drear,
Where faith lies dead, and where year by year
We see all good things disappear

Through strife and care.

Why have you left, O stranger tell,

The sound of the sea with its fall and swell?

On land you will hear the stifled cry
Of breaking hearts, as you pass them by;
And Gold the god you will see raised high,
And earth as hell.

O say, fair bird, with breast of snow,
Why do you roam where the dry winds blow?
The sea is free, but here on the land
The white slaves toil in a hopeless band,
And crime and cant go hand in hand,
And all is woe.

Then fly, white friend, back, back to sea,
For sad is my heart as I look on thee;
Let swift wings bear thee back from shore,
Let thy return be no more—no more,
But as the water thou roamest o'er,
Be thou as free.

Rude be thy waking, man, to-night,
Sad be thy greeting to morning light!
No bearer to thee of peace am I,
Far from the crimes of the sea I fly,
Away from the anguish that far and high
Breaks on the sight.

"Out on the sea "—say, stranger, here,
What do you know of its waters drear?
Where rotten wrecks away on the wave
Bear brave men down to a great green grave,
And he who would venture a word to save
Is mutineer.

What do you know of the dark'ning day
When out from the port she sails away?

A coffin for many a man is she,

A wasted hulk unfit for sea,

But "

passed" by one whose cursèd fee
Has paved the way.

What do you know of the toil and strife,
The prayer for death-the curse for life?
The wail of the widow, the orphan's cry-
When with well-lined purse the owners sigh
As they count the gain, from a purchased lie,
Ah, "death is rife."

What do you know of the fœtid hold,
Of nights aloft in the chilling cold,
The days of danger, and hail, and sleet,
The master's curse for each man he meet,
And food unfit for a dog to eat,
And dread untold?

No more no more, O white-winged one,
On land and sea, we must wander on,
The meadow fair and the soft green tree,
The raging tempest, and placid sea-
All, all are cursed, and where shall we
Find peace alone?

Ah, fellow wanderer here on earth,
Or spirit sweet from a fairer birth,

What are the toil and the strife and woe?

What is the ending of all below?

Where ends the struggle that all men know? What is it worth?

JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS.

66

His range

[The "Poet of Queensland" was born at Barrowstowness, Linlithgowshire, Scotland, in 1835, emigrating to Queensland, where he has resided ever since, in 1866. He has chiefly been engaged in tuition, having been head-master of a State school near Brisbane. Brunton Stephens is by far the most varied and witty of Australian poets. His chief work, Convict Once," was published by Messrs. Macmillan; but all other volumes have emanated from the local press. of subject is very wide, from the Bappo-like brilliancy of the "Godolphin Arabian," to the metaphysical subtlety of "Mute Discourse." No more entertaining volume of verse can be found than Brunton Stephens' Miscellaneous Poems, originally published by Watson, Ferguson, & Co., of Brisbane. Stephens is a thoroughly clever, well-informed man, and his sketchy writings in the Queenslander secured a wide circle of admirers. He married some few years ago, and still, despite the literary attractions of Melbourne and Sydney, clings to Queensland, which colony is justly proud of possessing a poet whose fame is already Australasian, if not European.]

"UNIVERSALLY RESPECTED."

I.

BIGGS was missing: Biggs had vanished; all the town was in a ferment;

For if ever man was looked to for an edifying end, With due mortuary outfit, and a popular interment,

It was Biggs, the universal guide, philosopher, and friend.

But the man had simply vanished: speculation wove no

tissue

That would hold a drop of water; each new theory fell

flat.