Alone, far from his people, The sun of his life went down. A cry for help? No time--not a prayer: As red blood splashed thro' riven hair, His soul rose to Heaven's throne. Ah! well for those felon hands Which the strong man foully slew, The cry from the Cross when our Saviour died "Father, forgive"--as they pierced His side-- "For they know not what they do." _They_ have souls, say the teachers Hereafter, the same as we: If so, it is hid from human grace By blood-writ crimes of savage race So deep, that we cannot see. Fear than love is far stronger: The cruel have seldom to rue: The neck is bowed 'neath the heavy heel, Love's covenant with _Death_ they seal; "For they know not what they do." This Dead, by the far sun-down, This man whom they idly slew, Was lover and friend to those who had slain With him all human love, like Cain; But "they know not what they do." 'Twixt laws Divine and human To judge, if we only knew, When the blood is hot, to part wrong from right, When to forgive and when to smite Foes who "know not what they do." The wronger and wronged shall meet For judgment, to die, or live; And the heathen shall cry, in anguish fell, At sight of the Bottomless Pit of Hell-- "We knew not, O Lord! Forgive." [1] A young Englishman, "killed by blacks on the Barcoo." SUNSET IN THE SOUTH It is Autumn, it is sunset, magic shower of tint and hue; All the west is hung with banners, white with golden, crimson, blue; Drooping folds! far floating, mingling, falling on the river's face; Upturned, placid, silver-mirrored, gazing into endless space. Faint the breath of eve, low-sighing for bright summer's fading charms; Woodland cries are echoing, chiming with the sounds from distant farms; And the stubble fires are gleaming red athwart the wood's deep shade, While the marsh mist, slowly rising, shrouds the greenery of the glade. Redly still the day is dying, as if o'er the desert waste, And we pictured camels, Arabs, and the solemn outline traced Of a pillared lonely Fane, clear against the crimson rim, Voiceless, but of empire telling, and the lore of ages dim. Low the deep voice of the ocean, whispering to the silent strand; Gleam the stars, in silver ripples; stretches broad the milk-white sand; And a long, low bark is lying underneath the island shore Weird and dream-like, darksome, soundless, spell-struck now, and evermore. Deeper, darker fall the shadows, and the charmed colours wane, Fading, as the fay-gold changes into earth and dross again, Wildfowl stream in swaying files landward to the marshy plain; Louder sound the forest voices and the deep tones of the main. "BALACLAVA"