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.
What land is with this to compare?
Not the green hills of Hybla, with bees
Honey-sweet, are more radiant and rare
In colour and fragrance than these
Boon shores, where the storm-clouds cease,
And the wind and the wave are at rest —
Where the wattle-bloom waves in the breeze,
And the bell-bird builds her nest.
Envoy.
Sweetheart, let them praise as they please
Other lands, but we know which is best —
Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze,
And the bell-bird builds her nest.
A Song
Above us only
The Southern stars,
And the moon o'er brimming
Her golden bars.
And a song sweet and clear
As the bell-bird's plaint,
Hums low in my ear
Like a dream-echo faint.
The kind old song —
How did it go?
With its ripple and flow,
That you used to sing, dear,
Long ago.
Hand fast in hand,
I, love, and thou;
Hand locked in hand,
And on my brow
Your perfumed lips
Breathing love and life —
The love of the maiden,
The trust of the wife.
And I'm listening still
To the ripple and flow —
How did it go? —
Of the little French song
Of that long ago.
Can you recall it
Across the years?
You used to sing it
With laughter and tears.
If you sang it now, dear,
That kind old refrain,
It would bring back the fragrance
Of the dead years again.
Le printemps pour l'amour —
How did it go?
Only we know;
Sing it, sweetheart, to-night,
As you did long ago.