I remember one thrust he gave to his hat, And two to the flanks of the brown, And still as a statue of old he sat, And he shot to the front, hands down; I remember the snort and the stag-like bound Of the steed six lengths to the fore, And the laugh of the rider while, landing sound, He turned in his saddle and glanced around; I remember--but little more, Save a bird’s-eye gleam of the dashing stream, A jarring thud on the wall, A shock, and the blank of a nightmare’s dream,-- I was down with a stunning fall! _Adam Lindsay Gordon._ STEPHENS CCXXI FULFILMENT (_January 1, 1901_) Ah, now we know the long delay But served to assure a prouder day, For while we waited, came the call To prove and make our title good-- To face the fiery ordeal That tries the claim to Nationhood-- And now, in pride of challenge, we unroll, For all the world to read, the record-scroll Whose bloody script attests a Nation’s soul. O ye, our Dead, who at the call Fared forth to fall as heroes fall, Whose consecrated souls we failed To note beneath the common guise Till all-revealing Death unveiled The splendour of your sacrifice, Now, crowned with more than perishable bays, Immortal in your country’s love and praise, Ye too have portion in this day of days! And ye who sowed where now we reap, Whose waiting eyes, now sealed in sleep, Beheld far off with prescient sight This triumph of rejoicing lands-- Yours too the day! for though its light Can pierce not to your folded hands, These shining hours of advent but fulfil The cherished purpose of your constant will Whose onward impulse liveth in us still. Still lead thou vanward of our line Who, shaggy, massive, leonine, Couldst yet most finely phrase the event-- For if a Pisgah view was all Vouchsafed to thine uncrowned intent, The echoes of thy herald-call Not faintlier strive with our saluting guns, And at thy words through all Australia’s sons The ‘crimson thread of kinship’ redder runs. But not the memory of the dead, How loved soe’er each sacred head, To-day can change from glad to grave The chords that quire a Nation born-- Twin-offspring of the birth that gave, When yester-midnight chimed to morn, Another age to the Redeemer’s reign, Another cycle to the widening gain Of Good o’er Ill and Remedy o’er Pain. Our sundering lines with love o’ergrown, Our bounds the girdling seas alone-- Be this the burden of the psalm That every resonant hour repeats, Till day-fall dusk the fern and palm That forest our transfigured streets, And night still vibrant with the note of praise Thrill brotherhearts to song in woodland ways, When gum-leaves whisper o’er the camp-fire’s blaze. * * * * *