The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses, To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle horse is failing, And only half-way o'er! When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle-dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But on the bank to northward, Or on the southern shore, The stock-horse and his rider Will struggle out no more. The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles, He fights with failing strength, Till borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length. Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam, The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; The hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily. * * * * * The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds, In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds. _THE RESCUE._ BY EDWARD DYSON. (_From "Rhymes from the Mines," by kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._) There's a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker, then the sound of a voice in the shaft, Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and the braceman goes suddenly daft; "Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy, run, give old Mackie a call-- Run, you fool! Number Two's gone to pieces, and Fred Baker is caught in the fall! Say, hello! there below--any hope, boys, any chances of saving his life?" "Heave away!" says the knocker. "They've started. God be praised, he's no youngsters or wife!" Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty, and the wild echo raves on the spur, And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, charmed sleep, is astir With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the vague, frightened murmur of birds; With far cooeys that carry the warning, running feet, inarticulate words. From the black belt of bush come the miners, and they gather by Mack on the brace, Out of breath, barely clad, and half-wakened, with a question in every face.