Pilot so soon? set.

His flare it is. The mornin'-watch is

Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin', I'm no Pelagian

'Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought What your good leddy costs in coal?

'em down to port.

I'll burn

I

THE MIRACLES

(1894)

SENT a message to my dear

A thousand leagues and more to HerThe dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear, And Lost Atlantis bore to Her.

Behind my message hard I came,
And nigh had found a grave for me;
But that I launched of steel and flame
Did war against the wave for me.

Uprose the deep, by gale on gale,

To bid me change my mind againHe broke his teeth along my rail,

And, roaring, swung behind again.

I stayed the sun at noon to tell
My way across the waste of it;
I read the storm before it fell

And made the better haste of it.

Afar, I hailed the land at night—

The towers I built had heard of meAnd, ere my rocket reached its height, Had flashed my Love the word of me.

Earth sold her chosen men of strength
(They lived and strove and died for me)
To drive my road a nation's length
And toss the miles aside for me.

I snatched their toil to serve my needs-
Too slow their fleetest flew for me-
I tired twenty smoking steeds,

And bade them bait a new for me.

I sent the lightnings forth to see
Where hour by hour She waited me.
Among ten million one was She,
And surely all men hated me!

Dawn ran to meet me at my goal-
Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!
And little folk of little soul

Rose up to buy and sell again!

W

THE NATIVE-BORN

(1894)

E'VE drunk to the Queen-God bless her!—
We've drunk to our mothers' land;
We've drunk to our English brother

(But he does not understand);

We've drunk to the wide creation,

And the Cross swings low for the morn,

Last toast, and of obligation,

A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them,
But not their hearts that roam!
We learned from our wistful mothers
To call old England 'home';

We read of the English skylark,

Of the spring in the English lanes, But we screamed with the painted lories As we rode on the dusty plains!

They passed with their old-world legends

Their tales of wrong and dearth

Our fathers held by purchase,

But we by the right of birth;

Our heart's where they rocked our cradle,
Our love where we spent our toil,

And our faith and our hope and our honour
We pledge to our native soil!

I charge you charge your glasses-
I charge you drink with me

To the men of the Four New Nations,
And the Islands of the Sea-

To the last least lump of coral

That none may stand outside,

And our own good pride shall teach us
To praise our comrade's pride!

To the hush of the breathless morning
On the thin, tin, crackling roofs,
To the haze of the burned back-ranges
And the dust of the shoeless hoofs-
To the risk of a death by drowning,
To the risk of a death by drouth-

To the men of a million acres,

To the Sons of the Golden South!

To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!),
And the life we live and know,

Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about,

If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about With the weight of a single blow!

To the smoke of a hundred coasters,
To the sheep on a thousand hills,
To the sun that never blisters,

To the rain that never chills