Posts tagged ‘1908’

Saturday, 5 December 2020

The Goblins’ Christmas by M. Elizabeth Anderson

The big bright Moon hung high and round,
In a densely darkened sky;
The tall pines swayed, and mocked, and groaned;
The mountains grew so high
That the Man-in-the-Moon came out and said,
“Ho! Spooks, for a merry dance.”
The winds blow hard, the caverns roar,
While o’er the earth they prance.

A Witch and a Goblin led the sprites;
Out from the sky they sprung;
And down the milky way they slid,
And over a chasm swung.
The streams around ran witches’ broth,
The fumes were strong and rank.
These Elfin creatures all were wroth,
While of the stuff they drank.

The cunning Moon looked on and laughed
With a shrill and sneering jibe;
Her soul grew fat to see them chaffed,
This mad and elfish tribe.
The big black caldron boiled so high
With food for these queer mites,
That it lit the world throughout the sky,
And down came all the Sprites.

Their mad career upset a star,
As through the air they flew:
It cringed in fear, and shot afar,
And fell where no one knew.
Orion’s sword was broke in bits,
Corona’s crown was gone,
Capella seemed to lose her wits,
While all so longed for dawn.

Then from the night there came a sound
Of sleigh-bells ringing sweet;
Out of the chaos came a man—
Kris Kringle–for his Christmas treat.
“Ho! Kris!” they cried, “We’ll have some fun,
We’ll bind the old man down,
We’ll tie him up, and toss him o’er
Into our Goblin-town.”

They climbed the sleigh with shout and din,
To bind his hands and feet;
A hundred strong they clambered in
Our good old Kris to meet.
He sat quite still, with twinkling eyes,
Then seized his mystic wand,
He raised it up, and waved it round
Stilled was this chattering band.

Stiffly stark and still they stood,
Clad in elfish clothes;
Some were wax, and some were wood,
One had crushed his nose.
“Playthings rare,” he said and smiled,
“For children rich and poor;
Some I’ll leave the crippled child,
And some at the orphan’s door.”

He shook his reins, and called his steed
To bear him swiftly on.
Full well it knew its Master’s need
To hurry e’er the dawn.
From house to house they scampered down,
Their sleigh-bells ringing clear,
Through chimneys in the sleepy town—
Good Kris and his reindeer.

The windows rattled, the moonbeams tattled
A tale so strange and queer.
They told how at night, in dire affright
The Moon had hid in fear.

That he’d called in sport his elfish court
Of spooks and witches gay,
Each Elfin child, by glee beguiled,
Brought scores of others, they say.

Then a man appeared, with flowing beard,
In a sled with a reindeer fleet;
They gathered about with din and shout,
To bind him hands and feet.

Then the Moon laughed loud at the gathering crowd,
While he held his sides in mirth,
To see old Kris in a plight like this,
Toiling o’er the earth.

But alas for the Moon, he had laughed like a loon,
For Kris is a hero of old,
Yes, Kris is a seer; with his small reindeer,
He captured the Goblins bold.

And he changed them, they say in a wonderful way,
To toys, for his Christmas cheer.
The big dolls stare with a goblin air,
The small ones cringe with fear.

While the moonbeams prattle, I hear a rattle
Of hoofs on the chimney side;
Then out on the snow I gaze below,
“Hurrah! it’s Kris Kringle,” I cried.

Then, sly as a mouse, he entered the house,
And hung up his treasures so gay.
Then out with a dash, he sped like a flash,
Into the night, and away.

From: http://www.public-domain-poetry.com/elizabeth-anderson/goblins-christmas-12797

Date: 1908

By: M. Elizabeth Anderson (fl. 1908)

Saturday, 6 June 2020

The Fear by Lascelles Abercrombie

As over muddy shores a dragon flock
Went, in an early age from ours discrete,
Before the grim race found oblivion meet;
And as Time harden’d into iron rock
That unclean mud, and into cliffs did lock
The story of those terrifying feet
With hookèd claws and wrinkled scale complete,
Till quarrying startles us with amaz’d shock:

So there was something wont to pass along
The plashy marge of early consciousness.
Now the quagmires are turned to pavement strong;
Those outer twilight regions bold I may
Explore,—yet still I shudder with distress
To find detested tracks of his old way.

From: Abercrombie, Lascelles, The Poems of Lascelles Abercrombie, 1930, Oxford University Press: London, p. 9.
(https://archive.org/details/poemsoflascelles0000aber/)

Date: 1908

By: Lascelles Abercrombie (1881-1938)

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

My Country by Dorothea Mackellar

The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes.
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins,
Strong love of grey-blue distance
Brown streams and soft dim skies
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror –
The wide brown land for me!

A stark white ring-barked forest
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon.
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us,
We see the cattle die –
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady, soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine,
She pays us back threefold –
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land –
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand –
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

From: http://www.dorotheamackellar.com.au/archive/mycountry.htm

Date: 1904

By: Dorothea Mackellar (1885-1968)

Alternative Title: Core of My Heart