Therefore from this unhallowed desolation, Where these, the victims of Thy monstrous lust, Half-buried in the mud of their damnation, Crumble--how slowly!--into loathsome dust, We curse Thee, God, nor shall our sons and daughters Fall at Thy footstool as their fathers fell, But, tired of tears and loyalties and slaughters, Lie down in peace and laugh at heaven and hell. _C. R. S. HARRIS_ (_CORPUS_) SONNET "Cum tacet omnis ager."--VIRGIL. Oh for the stillness of the midnight hours, When all the earth is silent, and the breeze Rustles no more the branches of the trees, And makes no music in the leafy bowers, When Nature sleeps, and all earth's myriad flowers Folded in slumber take their dewy ease, And hushed is all the moaning of the seas, Lulled by the magic of enchanting powers. For then the green earth sleeps, and for a while Forgets her sorrow, and her heaving breast Is sunk in a deep calm and liquid rest. And the still waters of the silver sea, Bathed in the glory of the moon's cold smile, Reflect the splendour of eternity. _B. HIGGINS_ (_B. N. C._) GALLIPOLI: AN EPITAPH The moan of centuries breaks around these shores, Whispers of sultry ages, and of woes Low-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven.... A land that bows beneath the crescent moon And shrinks within its glinting gaze--is this The mausoleum of our nation's dead? Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand! Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hills Are touched with sanctity: the Voice of God Thrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fields And lingers where these warriors lie entombed-- 'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies, Where sleep they in a hush of eventide, The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments! MELBOURNE, 1917. EVENTIDE A thrush throbs out his mournful melody, And shadowy fingers of approaching Dusk Clutch vaguely at the trees And shroud the purple hills: And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir, Bedewing tearful kisses on the buds That freeze in filmy fold: The waters, icy-chill, Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birds Stand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd, To join the woeful chant, The dirge of waning day. GIPPSLAND HILLS, 1917. _H. J. HOPE_ (_CHRIST CHURCH_) THE PATROL