The ODD ANGLE

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIII, Issue 118, 21 May 1942, Page 6

The ODD ANGLE

r«y MacCLURE) • A PROPHETIC AUSTRALIAN POEM Some time ago 1 quoted from the prophetic poem of Australia's most loved poet, Henry Lawson. On that occasion from far and wide came tributes to Lawson and requests for the reprinting of it, as well as a host of requests for "more of the oldtimers, Mac." And so, to-day, while our Parliamentarians are singing hymns of hate and the Dominion executive of the H.S.A. is having a go at Cabinet-making despite the generally understood returned man's

"hands off politics," we will leave our politically-mad world behind and link up with one or two of the truly great, the poets of Australia. In the spirit of prophecy, let me quote Cecil Poole's "Hymn for the Commonwealth," written many decades ago, but, in its portrayal of things to come, equal to anything ever given to the world. And mark "the eagle squadrons" he mentions:

From out the ardent soil they smite will spring a swelling host And sweep in eagle squadrons to reply. That reply is being transmitted to Tokyo, and to-day, if you listen in to Tokyo radio, you'll hear the Japanese version of the damage they did—altered to suit Japanese ears, of course. And now for Cecil Poole:

• HYMN FOR THE

COMMONWEALTH

There's a light upon the mountain tops that meets the rising morn Where the bondless winds are shouting at their play; And soon the valleys, far below, and clad in tassel led torn, W ill tlush beneath the glances of the day.

Across tne ocean creeps the dawn, with level light and low; The threshing waters beat and break In thunder and in snow; And now the eager sun has set the sombre capes aglow And stripped the clinging darkness from Australia.

There are lands beyond the swinging seas enriched with golden climes; There are lands of fading shrines and ancient towers; There are lands whose mists can never hide the glory of their times; But none to match this queenly land of ours. For oh! she is the kindest that has blessed her sons with good; And we love her for her graces, who have known her every mood; And not an axe can ever check the sap of nationhood That rises in the bosom of Australia.

If the roaring hurricane of war should burst upon her coast And the lightnings of aggression round her fly, From out the ardent soil they smite will spring a swelling host And sweep in eagle squadrons to reply. The hardy plainsmen, hurrying on, will form with cheer and shout; The daring mountain riders will spur down from their redoubt; And then a million shafts will pour their flaming spirits out To be the living buckler of Australia.

Thou shining and eternal One, whose Presence broodeth still In might above the peoples Thou hast made, Though Thou triest Her with trouble, give Her yet the lofty will That seeks a righteous purpose unafraid. Oh, give her men to mount a rugged destiny, but high; The noble patience that can put enticing evil by; With ever nearts to cherish Her, and ready hearts to die For our dear and mighty Motherland, Australia. • THE KID One great writer has said that the national use of poetry is to sing, to chant, to represent, to reinforce and heighten and lead onward the current of national life. We too in New Zealand are lucky that we have so many glorious poems all our own, poems that give this stimulus and support to our national ideals, so many poets and so much poetry that expresses the beauty of our own land, the strength, the fun, the grief and the glory of Enzed. This we will reserve for a future issue. Today, in response to the demand for "more of the old-timers," we will quote (for Ben Brace) the passage from C. J. Dennis' "The Kid," that Ben quoted lovingly when he pointed out his boy in Papakura in battledress: My son an' bloomin' 'eir. ... Ours! . . . 'Ers an' mine! The finest kid in. . . . Aw, the sun don't shine— Ther' ain't no joy fer me beneath the blue — Unless I'm gazin' lovin' at them two. A little while ago it was Jist "me"— A lonely, longin' streak o' misery. An' then 'twas " 'er an' me"—Doreen, my wife! An' now it's " 'im an' us," an'—sich is lifel Three times I comes to listen at the door; Three times X drags meself away once more; 'Arf dead wiv fear; 'arf filled wiv tremblin' joy. . . . An' then she beckons me, an' sez—"A boy!"

My son! ... If ther's a Gawd 'oo's leanin' near To watch our dilly little lives down 'ere, 'E smiles, I guess, if 'E's a lovin' one— Smiles, friendly-like, to 'ear them words — My Son! C. J. DENNIS I was foolish enough to think that in one column I could do justice to these Aussie poets. Instead I must conclude this day with an extract from Will Ogilvie's "Men Who Blazed the Track": Since the toasts for the Absent are o*"er, And duly we've pledged in our wine Our Land, and our Friends, and our Lover, Here's a toast for you, comrades o' mine! To the fighting band that won the land From the bitterest wastes out back! From hut and hall to the kings of all— "The Men Who Blazed the Track!" They rode away into the forest In the mornings gold-studded with stars, And the song of the leaders was chorused To the clinking of rowel and bars; They fought for the fame of the Islands, And struck for the Width of the World; They fashioned new roads in the silence, And flags in the fastness unfurled. Our pride 1s the path of our fathers. Our hope's in the sons of our home, And wherever our nation foregathers Our nation is foremost to roam; But the valleys that smile to our tillage, The hills where our banners unfold, Were won by the men of the village, And bought with their axes of old. And we only ride with the flowing tide As we followed the blazed line back, So we'll drink the toast of the vanguard host, And "The Men Who Blazed the lrack!" W. H. OGILVIE.