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<h2 id="THE_MARTYR">THE MARTYR.</h2> By Victor J. Daley. (From "At Dawn and Dusk" poems, by kind permission of Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne.) <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Not only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world's sad martyrs Whose names are writ in blood. </div> <div class="stanza"> A woman lay in a hovel Mean, dismal, gasping for breath; One friend alone was beside her: The name of him was—Death. </div> <div class="stanza"> For the sake of her orphan children, For money to buy them food, She had slaved in the dismal hovel And wasted her womanhood. </div> <div class="stanza"> Winter and spring and summer Came each with a load of cares; And autumn to her brought only A harvest of grey hairs. </div> <div class="stanza"> Far out in the blessèd country, Beyond the smoky town, The winds of God were blowing Evermore up and down; </div> <div class="stanza"> The trees were waving signals Of joy from the bush beyond; The gum its blue-green banner, The fern its dark-green frond; [26]</div> <div class="stanza"> Flower called to flower in whispers By sweet caressing names, And young gum shoots sprang upward Like woodland altar-flames; </div> <div class="stanza"> And, deep in the distant ranges The magpie's fluting song Roused musical, mocking echoes In the woods of Dandenong; </div> <div class="stanza"> And riders were galloping gaily, With loose-held flowing reins, Through dim and shadowy gullies, Across broad, treeless plains; </div> <div class="stanza"> And winds through the Heads came wafting A breath of life from the sea, And over the blue horizon The ships sailed silently; </div> <div class="stanza"> And out of the sea at morning The sun rose, golden bright, And in crimson, and gold, and purple Sank in the sea at night; </div> <div class="stanza"> But in dreams alone she saw them, Her hours of toil between; For life to her was only A heartless dead machine. </div> <div class="stanza"> Her heart was in the graveyard Where lay her children three; Nor work nor prayer could save them, Nor tears of agony. [27]</div> <div class="stanza"> On the lips of her last and dearest Pressing a farewell kiss, She cried aloud in her anguish— "Can God make amends for this?" </div> <div class="stanza"> Dull, desperate, ceaseless slaving Bereft her of power to pray, And Man was careless and cruel, And God was far away. </div> <div class="stanza"> But who shall measure His mercies? His ways are in the deep; And, after a life of sorrow, He gave her His gift of sleep. </div> <div class="stanza"> Rest comes at last to the weary, And freedom to the slave; Her tired and worn-out body Sleeps well in its pauper grave. </div> <div class="stanza"> But His angel bore her soul up To that Bright Land and Fair, Where Sorrow enters never, Nor any cloud of care. </div> <div class="stanza"> They came to a lovely valley, Agleam with asphodel, And the soul of the woman speaking, Said, "Here I fain would dwell!" </div> <div class="stanza"> The angel answered gently: "O Soul, most pure and dear, O Soul, most tried and truest, Thy dwelling is not here! </div> <div class="stanza"> "Behold thy place appointed— Long kept, long waiting—come! Where bloom on the hills of Heaven The roses of Martyrdom!" </div> </div> [28] <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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