A Pastoral

Nature feels the touch of noon;

Not a rustle stirs the grass;

Not a shadow flecks the sky,

Save the brown hawk hovering nigh;

Not a ripple dims the glass

   Of the wide lagoon.

Darkly, like an armed host

Seen afar against the blue,

Rise the hills, and yellow-grey

Sleeps the plain in cove and bay,

Like a shining sea that dreams

   Round a silent coast.

From the heart of these blue hills,

Like the joy that flows from peace,

Creeps the river far below

Fringed with willow, sinuous, slow.

Surely here there seems surcease

   From the care that kills.

Surely here might radiant Love

Fill with happiness his cup,

Where the purple lucerne-bloom

Floods the air with sweet perfume,

Nature's incense floating up

   To the Gods above.

'Neath the gnarled-boughed apple trees

Motionless the cattle stand;

Chequered cornfield, homestead white,

Sleeping in the streaming light,

For deep trance is o'er the land,

   And the wings of peace.

Here, O Power that moves the heart,

Thou art in the quiet air;

Here, unvexed of code or creed,

Man may breathe his bitter need;

Nor with impious lips declare

   What Thou wert and art.

All the strong souls of the race

Thro' the aeons that have run,

They have cried aloud to Thee —

"Thou art that which stirs in me!"

As the flame leaps towards the sun

   They have sought Thy face.

But the faiths have flowered and flown,

And the truth is but in part;

Many a creed and many a grade

For Thy purpose Thou hast made.

None can know Thee what Thou art,

   Fathomless!  Unknown!

A Pastoral - Apple Tree - this is a native Australian tree, so called from a supposed resemblance to the English apple-tree, but this bears no edible fruit.