He went into the bush, and passed
Out of the sight of living men,
None knows the nook that held him last,
None ever saw his face again.
It may be, in the wildering wood
He wandered, weary, spent of breath,
Till the all-mastering solitude
Sank to the deeper hush of death.
Perchance he crawled where the low bush,
More verdant, whispered streams were nigh,
Hopeful, but desperate, made a rush,
And found, O God! the bed was dry!
He was a waif, and friends had none;
Who knows but in some distant land
A mother mourns her errant son,
A sister longs to clasp his hand?
He was a waif, but with him died
A world of yearnings deep within—
Yearning to loftiest things allied,
But wrecked by cruel fate, or sin.
None heard the lone one’s dying prayer
Save Infinite Pity bending o’er,
Who, haply, bore him quietly where
They hunger and they thirst no more.
O ye vast woods! what fond life-dreams
Ye close! what broken lives ye hide!
Darkly absorbed, like hopeful streams,
That in dry desert lands subside.
Stranger the tales ye could unfold
Than wild romancer ever penned,
Remaining buried in the mould
Till time shall cease, and mystery end!
A. C. Smith [A.C.S.] (19th century) Australia
Source: Australian poets, 1788-1888; Douglas Brooke Wheelton-Sladen, Cassell publishing company, 1890
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