I view them growing, day by day, in thee,
My first-begotten son; I trace them plain
In you, my daughters; and I count it gain
Myself renewed and multiplied to see.
But sadness mingles with my selfish joy,
At thought of what you may be called to bear.
Oh, passionate maid! Oh, glad, impulsive boy!
Your father's sad experience you must share --
Self-torture, the unfeeling world's annoy,
Gross pleasure, fierce exultance, grim despair!
Robert Richardson.
A Ballade of Wattle Blossom
There's a land that is happy and fair,
Set gem-like in halcyon seas;
The white winters visit not there,
To sadden its blossoming leas,
More bland than the Hesperides,
Or any warm isle of the West,
Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze,
And the bell-bird builds her nest.
When the oak and the elm are bare,
And wild winds vex the shuddering trees;
There the clematis whitens the air,
And the husbandman laughs as he sees
The grass rippling green to his knees,
And his vineyards in emerald drest --
Where the wattle-bloom bends in the breeze,
And the bell-bird builds her nest.
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