Under the Wattle
"Why should not wattle do
For mistletoe?"
Asked one -- they were but two --
Where wattles grow.
He was her lover, too,
Who urged her so --
"Why should not wattle do
For mistletoe?"
A rose-cheek rosier grew;
Rose-lips breathed low;
"Since it is here, and YOU,
I hardly know
Why wattle should not do."
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
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From the Drama of “Charles II”
COME and kiss me, mistress Beauty,
I will give you all that ’s due t’ye.
I will taste your rosebud lips
Daintily as the bee sips;
At your bonny eyes I ’ll look
Like a scholar at his book:
On my bosom you shall rest,
Like a robin on her nest:
Round my body you shall twine,
I ’ll be elm, and you be vine:
In a bumper of your breath
I would drain a draught of death;
In the tangles of your hair
I ’d be hanged and never care.
Then come kiss me, mistress Beauty,
I will give you all that ’s due t’ ye.
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
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Sunset On The Cunimbla Valley, Blue Mountains
I SAT upon a windy mountain height,
On a huge rock outstanding from the rest;
The sun had sunk behind a neighboring crest,
Leaving chill shade; but looking down, my sight
Beheld the vale still bathed in his warm light
And of the perfect peace of eve possessed,
No wave upon the forest on its breast
And all its park-like glades with sunshine bright.
It put me into mind of the old age
Of one who leaves ambition’s rocks and peaks
To those inhabited by nobler rage,
And still existence in life’s valleys seeks;
His is the peaceful eve; but then one hour
Of mountain life is worthy his twenty four.
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
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The Tropics
LOVE we the warmth and light of tropic lands,
The strange bright fruit, the feathery fanspread leaves,
The glowing mornings and the mellow eves,
The strange shells scattered on the golden sands,
The curious handiwork of Eastern hands,
The little carts ambled by humpbacked beeves,
The narrow outrigged native boat which cleaves,
Unscathed, the surf outside the coral strands.
Love we the blaze of color, the rich red
Of broad tiled-roof and turban, the bright green
Of plantain-frond and paddy-field, nor dread
The fierceness of the noon. The sky serene,
The chill-less air, quaint sights, and tropic trees,
Seem like a dream fulfilled of lotus-ease.
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
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Salopia Inhospitalis
TOUCH not that maid:
She is a flower, and changeth but to fade.
Fragrant is she, and fair
As any shape that haunts this lower air;
In form as graceful and as free
As honeysuckles and the lilies be;
Insensible, and shrinking from caress
As flowers, which you peril when you press.
Gaze not on her;
She is a being of another sphere.
Brilliant is she, and bright
As any star illuminate at night;
Of stuff as sober and as fine
As hers whose glory through the moon doth shine;
Unliker to come down to this thy love
Than any orb that ’s fixed for aye above.
Heed her no more:
She is a gem whose heart thou canst not bore;
Glistering is she, and grand
As any stone that decks a monarch’s hand;
[...] Read more
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
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To The Australian Eleven
You have bearded the lion in his den,
You have singed the original cricket
Upon his own hearth, and beaten his men
On a genuine English wicket;
And so the Australian kangaroo
Has a right good right to be proud of you.
That you’ve had your even share of the luck
We’ll allow, argumenti gratia,
But you won the great match by downright pluck,
And accordingly Australasia
Accords such a welcome to her Eleven
As for peaceful triumph never was given.
Let us pray that if ever Fate commands
Us to step into the arena,
With foils without buttons on, hearts and hands
Be forthcoming without subpoena
To uphold the name of the kangaroo
As the Australian Eleven do.
[...] Read more
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
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A Christmas Letter From Australia
’T IS Christmas, and the North wind blows; ’t was two years yesterday
Since from the Lusitania’s bows I looked o’er Table Bay,
A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main,
Expecting when her sails unfurled to start for home again.
’T is Christmas, and the North wind blows; to-day our hearts are one,
Though you are ’mid the English snows and I in Austral sun;
You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile high a mightier fire,
Our ladies cower until it ’s past in lawn and lace attire.
I fancy I can picture you upon this Christmas night,
Just sitting as you used to do, the laughter at its height:
And then a sudden, silent pause intruding on your glee,
And kind eyes glistening because you chanced to think of me.
This morning when I woke and knew ’t was Christmas come again,
I almost fancied I could view white rime upon the pane,
And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground,
And see the drip that downward steals in icy casket bound.
[...] Read more
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
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