Poems of Love
The poems in this section are arranged, as far as is possible, in chronological order, the chronology being determined by the author’s date of birth. While some of the poems included had their origins, literally, as epithalamiums, intended to celebrate particular weddings, others celebrate love in a more general way, and might indeed be used by hopeful lovers as a means of leading a beloved toward a marriage ceremony. Others again, perhaps unfortunately, describe what becomes of lovers once the wedding is over (see the married couple in the anonymous poem ‘Shickered as He Could Be’). Charles Harpur, who opens this section, was at one time regarded as Australia’s first real poet; he certainly regarded himself as such. Reading him now, it is easy to be amused by the implications he could not have guessed were present when he wrote about a ‘dark-eyed Lesbian Maid’. Language, and the things we mean by it, changes, and yet some of the nineteenth-century poems I have included remain surprisingly contemporary in feeling. Adam Lindsay Gordon’s flirtatious couple, for example, or the bookshop assistant in ‘Henry George’, by Francis Adams, both have a feeling we could recognise as modern. On the other hand, poets attempting, in their own time, to be ‘modern’, such as Agnes L Storrie, with her ‘Modern Lover’, or James Brunton Stephens with his futuristic (and rather ghoulish) vision of courtship assisted by new forms of technology, can now seem relatively dated. Yet the very fact of their datedness is not without interest, for it enables those who read this collection in sequence to gain a sense of the evolution both of Australian poetry and of our society in general. The social attitudes, and the slang dialect employed, by ‘Ironbark’ and ‘Narranghi Boori’ would be frowned on these days (and indeed, both poets were satirising rather than endorsing those attitudes), but their poems can be seen as precursors for the much more celebrated dialect poems of CJ Dennis. The word ‘klina’ or ‘cliner’, which has been absent from our vocabulary for more than half a century, is used both by ‘Narranghi’ and Dennis. CJ Dennis was a splendid storyteller, and an admirable verse technician, but he was not a complete original; he was a writer, like all
14 of our best authors, who built on the achievements of his predecessors. Thus the achievements of the more recent poets in this selection can be seen to have grown out of that which went before. Some of the poems included, such as Les Murray’s ‘Toward the Imminent Days’, would be far too long to read aloud at a wedding ceremony, but many of these poems include lines, stanzas, or just phrases which some might find ideal for their own situation. It has seemed to me important, nonetheless, to include the whole poem even if not every part of it is applicable, as it is barbaric to amputate sections from poems that create whole worlds within themselves. Only by reading an entire poem, I feel, can we receive the benefit of what Elsie Cole refers to as ‘the terrible teachings of love’.
15 I Would Get Me a New Love Charles Harpur (1813–1868)
I would get me a new love, The old fire is out! I would get me a new love Ere Spring comes about! That as in her warm arms The fields all rebloom. My lone heart may awaken From coldness and gloom. Oh there’s nothing in Nature Like love when ’tis new; And there’s nothing in fortune Like love when ’tis true! But my passion for Meg was A fire that’s gone out; And I’d get me a new love Ere Spring comes about. I would get me a new love, Less custom’s cold slave; And I’d get me a new love More earnest and brave! Too pure to mistrust me, Too noble to doubt! I would get such a new love Ere Spring comes about. But if such a new love I no-where may get, I’d as lief be as lonely – Nay, lonelier yet! Than have one like the old love, Just playing a part, With a flare in her fancy, But ice at her heart.
16 Charles Harpur
Sappho to Herself Charles Harpur (1813–1868)
Musing of love the livelong day The Lesbian Nightingale, this Lay With thrilling hand did give to start Forth from her exquisite lyre In flashes of passionate fire, As from a visionary Lover’s heart; So to beguile her tender woe For Phaon’s absence, and in fancy show How to his arms she would again be moved, How languishingly wooed, how wildly, fiercely loved. ‘Oh, why, my dark-eyed Lesbian Maid, Is still our crowning bliss delayed? When wilt thou Passion’s lets remove? When still the anxious sighs of Love? ‘How cold to me, of thee forlorn, The kisses of the rosy Morn! How tasteless, until thou relieve, The balmy lovingness of Eve! ‘Lost to all else, thy Image bright Is sovereign o’er my day and night That, waking I alone can see, And sleeping, I but dream of thee. ‘See all my youthful friends deplore The gladness I possess no more; My melancholy wandering lone – The game deferred – the sport forgone! ‘And if they would my care beguile, Their counsel’s wasted; for the while My spirit, on the wings of love, Is hovering o’er thee like a dove. ‘And when at length, impatient grown, Their speech assumes a louder tone, Startled, I turn, surprised at last, To find them near, though hours have passed!
18 Charles Harpur ‘But how describe the feeling dire That fills my veins with rushing fire, Whene’er the burning thought alarms, That thou mayest bless Another’s arms! ‘I cast my self upon the ground, My brain swims madly round and round, My ears or tingle like a bell, Or murmur like the ocean shell! ‘My limbs grow rigid as if they Were moulded round with icy clay; My breath is short; my sight is thick; And my wild heart pants deadly sick! ‘Were I a conqueror, and held Each Indian realm by Bacchus quelled, All swayed of old by Babylon’s rod, Or since by Persian armies trod; – ‘The isles that in the golden West Compose the Heaven of the Blest; And those the azure South gives forth, With all that gem the dusky North: – ‘With these as dross, I’d fondly part But to be monarch of thy heart, And fold within my happy arms Thy world of worth, thy heaven of charms! ‘To press thy melting lips, and wreak Love’s raptures on thy blushing cheek, Thy glowing limbs with mine entwine, And mix thy very soul with mine!’
Charles Harpur 19 Moggy’s Wedding Charles R Thatcher (1831–1878)
Jemmy Ball, a lucky digger, Who on Ballarat had been some while, Resolved that he would cut a figure, Acos he had just made his pile. He stuck up to a gal named Moggy – A big stout lass from t’other side; And though at times she got quite groggy, He determined she should be his bride. To ask his mates all to the wedding, Round the diggings he did pop; And then to purchase clothes and bedding He took his Moggy to a shop; And she, resolved to ‘shew her muscle’, Bought satin, lace, and bombazine, A Tuscan bonnet and a bustle, And any quantity of crinoline. On the bridal morn the sun shone brightly, The guests began then to arrive; And Jim sang out to Mog so sprightly, ‘Come on, old woman, look alive.’ Jim was dressed up like a dandy, With rings his fingers they were full; And Mog uncorked a case of brandy, And took a most tremendous pull. The guests into the tent kept dropping, And they then prepared to start, And Jemmy up the lush kept mopping, And then went for an old spring cart. Up got Moggy, and her bonnet With orange blossoms round was lined; But the seat broke slap ven she sat on it, And pitched her right whop out behind.
20 Charles R Thatcher Next came a dray, and Sydney Polly With Jack Johnson up did pop, And Tony Cheeks, with Adelaide Dolly, Who kept a little sly-grog shop. Bill Grummet said then, ‘Let’s be going’, A black belltopper he did wear; And when some coves began their joeing, Crikey! Oh how he did swear. If you had seen them all alighting, You would have laughed, upon my life; But it regularly licked dog fighting, When asked if she would be his wife; This produced a vacant stare from Moggy – To ask this question is the rule; ‘Of course I will,’ says she, half groggy, ‘I comed on purpose, you old fool.’ They all then went home rather merry, Resolved that they’d get drunk that day, And lots of brandy, port and sherry, They managed soon to stow away: Mog to do her share was able, And she soon got precious tight; And stretch’d blind drunk beneath the table Was how she spent her wedding night.
Charles R Thatcher 21 from The Road to Avernus Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833–1870)
Scene IX – In the Garden Aylmer’s Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE He: Come to the bank where the boat is moor’d to the willowtree low; Bertha, the baby, won’t notice, Brian, the blockhead, won’t know. She: Bertha is not such a baby, sir, as you seem to suppose; Brian, a blockhead he may be, more than you think, for he knows. He: This much, at least, of your brother, from the beginning he knew Somewhat concerning that other made such a fool of by you. She: Firmer those bonds were and faster, Frank was my spaniel, my slave. You! You would fain be my master; mark you! The difference is grave. He: Call me your spaniel, your starling, take me and treat me as these, I would be anything, darling! Aye, whatsoever you please. Brian and Basil are ‘punting’, leave them their dice and their wine, Bertha is butterfly hunting, surely one hour shall be mine. See, I have done with all duty; see, I can dare all disgrace, Only to look at your beauty, feasting my eyes on your face. She: Look at me, aye, till your eyes ache! How, let me ask, will it end? Neither for your sake, nor my sake, but for the sake of my friend? He: Is she your friend then? I own it, this is all wrong, and the rest, Frustra sed anima monet, caro quod fortius est. She: Not quite so close, Laurence Raby, not with your arm round my waist; Something to look at I may be, nothing to touch or to taste. He: Willful as ever and wayward; why did you tempt me, Estelle?
22 Adam Lindsay Gordon She: You misinterpret each stray word, you for each inch take an ell. Lightly all laws and ties trammel me, I am warn’d for all that. He (aside): Perhaps she will swallow her camel when she has strained at her gnat. She: Therefore take thought and consider, weigh well, as I do, the whole, You for mere beauty a bidder, say, would you barter a soul? He: Girl! That may happen, but this is; after this welcome the worst; Blest for one hour by your kisses, let me be evermore curs’d. Talk not of ties to me reckless, here every tie I discard – Make me your girdle, your necklace – She: Laurence, you kiss me too hard. He: Aye, ’tis the road to Avernus, n’est ce pas vrais donc, ma belle? There let them bind us or burn us, mais le jeu vaut la chandelle. Am I your lord or your vassal? Are you my sun or my torch? You, when I look at you, dazzle, yet when I touch you you scorch. She: Yonder are Brian and Basil, watching us fools from the porch.
Adam Lindsay Gordon 23 The Courtship of the Future (AD 2876) James Brunton Stephens (1835–1902)
He: ‘What is a kiss?’ – Why, long ago, When pairs, as we, a-wooing sat, They used to put their four lips … so … And make a chirping noise … like that. And, strange to say, the fools were pleased; A little went a long way then: A cheek lip-grazed, a finger squeezed, Was rapture to those ancient men. Ah, not for us the timid course Of those old-fashioned bill-and-cooers! One unit of our psychic force Had squelched a thousand antique wooers. For us the god his chalice dips In fountains fiercer, deeper, dearer, Than purling confluence of lips That meet, but bring the Souls no nearer. Well; ’twas but poverty at worst: Poor beggars, how could they be choosers! Not yet upon the world had burst Our Patent Mutual Blood-Transfusers. Nor yet had Science caught the clue To joy self-doubling, -squaring, -cubing – Nor taught to draw the whole soul through A foot of gutta-percha tubing. Come. Lulu, bare the pearly arm; Now, where the subtle blue shows keenest, I hang the duplex, snake-like charm (The latest, by a new machinist). And see, in turn above my wrist I fix the blood-compelling conduits… Ah, this is what the old world missed, Or all the lore of all its pundits! I turn the tap – I touch the spring – Hush, Lulu, hush! Our lives are blending. (This new escapement’s quite the thing, And very well worth recommending.) Oh, circuit of commingling bliss!
24 James Brunton Stephens