James Brunton Stephens - Poems

Classic Poetry Series James Brunton Stephens - poems - Publication Date: 2012 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive James Brunton Stephens(17 June 1835 – 29 June 1902) James Brunton Stephens was a Scottish-born Australian poet, author of Convict Once. Early life Stephens was born at Borrowstounness, on the Firth of Forth, Scotland; the son of John Stephens, the parish schoolmaster, and his wife Jane, née Brunton. J. B. Stephens was educated at his father's school, then at a free boarding school and at the University of Edinburgh from 1849 to 1854 without obtaining a degree. For three years he was a travelling tutor on the continent, and from 1859 became a school teacher in Scotland. While teaching at Greenock Academy in Greenock, Stephens wrote some minor verse and two short novels ('Rutson Morley' and 'Virtue Le Moyne') which were published in Sharpe's London Magazine in 1861- 63. Career in Australia Stephens migrated to Queensland, Australia, in 1866 possibly for health reasons. He was a tutor with the Barker family of squatters at Tamrookum station for some time and in 1870 entered the Queensland education department. He had experience as a teacher at Stanthorpe and was afterwards in charge of the school at Ashgrove, near Brisbane. Representations were then made to the premier, Sir Thomas McIlwraith, that a man of Stephens's ability was being wasted in a small school, and in 1883 a position was found for him as a correspondence clerk in the colonial secretary's department. He afterwards rose to be undersecretary to the chief secretary's department. Before coming to Australia Stephens had done a little writing for popular magazines, and in 1871 his first volume of poems, Convict Once, was published by Macmillan and Company, which immediately proclaimed him to be an Australian poet of importance. In 1873 a long poem, The Godolphin Arabian, was published. These were followed by The Black Gin and other Poems, 1873, and Miscellaneous Poems, 1880. The first collected edition of his poems was published in 1885, others followed in 1888, 1902 and 1912. Of these the 1902 edition is the most complete. After Stephens entered the colonial secretary's department in 1883 he was unable to do much literary work though he wrote occasionally for the press. He was suffering for some time from angina pectoris before his sudden death on 29 June 1902. He married on 10 November 1876, Rosalie Mary Donaldson, who www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 survived him with four daughters and one son. Poetic critique Stephens was a man of medium height "with the face of a poet". Simple and natural in manner, he was modest about his own work. His over-sensitiveness to the sufferings of others made it difficult for him to resist appeals for charity to the extent of damaging his own fortunes. He was sometimes exuberant and full of humour, though occasionally the pendulum swung the other way. His sense of duty kept him working during his last illness to the end. No doubt his official papers exercised his literary talent, but it was not the best preparation for poetry of which he wrote little in later years. However, though new men were arising, he remained the representative man of letters in Australia until his death. His witty and humorous light verse is very good. Despite all changes of fashion, such poems as "The Power of Science" and "My other Chinese Cook", can still evoke laughter. The Godolphin Arabian in the metre and style of <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/george-gordon-lord-byron/">Byron's</a> Beppo goes on its pleasant rhyming way for about three thousand lines and is still readable, but as it is not included in any collected edition, will be forgotten. Convict Once, remains one of the few long Australian poems of merit, technically it is a lesson to those writers who think it is easy to write in a long metre. Much of his other verse is admirable in its simplicity and dignity. He remained a Briton and there is little trace of his adopted country in his poetry, but his poems on federation "The Dominion of Australia" and "The Dominion" have the restrained enthusiasm that belongs to true patriotism. Perhaps if there had been less restraint and more of the surge of emotion, Stephens might have been a better poet, but his place among nineteenth century Australian men of letters will always be an honoured one. Apart from his poetry, he published a short novel, A Hundred Pounds, the libretto of an opera, and a few poetry pamphlets not already mentioned are listed in Percival Serle's Bibliography of Australasian Poetry and Verse. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 “big Ben” De mortuis nil ni- Si bonum: R.I.P.:— No more upbraid him:— Nay, rather plead his cause, For Ben exactly was What Nature made him. Not radically bad, He naturally had No leaning sinwards; But Nature saw it good One life-long crave for food Should rack his inwards. According to his lights, And to the appetites In him implanted, He did his level best To feed—and all the rest He took for granted. Ere birth he was laid low, And yet no man I know For high birth matched him: Apollo was his sire, Who with life-giving fire Ab ovo hatched him. Just over Capricorn This same Big Ben was born, A feeble lizard; But with the years came strength, And twenty feet of length— The most part gizzard. By Fitzroy's rugged crags, Its “sawyers” and its snags, He roamed piscivorous; Or watching for his prey, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 By Yaamba creek he lay, In mood carnivorous. Unthinking little hogs, And careless puppy-dogs Fitzroy-ward straying, Were grist unto his mill. His grinders now are still, Himself past preying. Whether in self-defence, Or out of hate prepense, Or just for fun shot, Are things beyond my ken— I only know Big Ben Died of a gunshot. It was a sorry case; For Ben loved all our race, Both saint and sinner; If he had had his way, He would have brought each day One home to dinner:— Loved with that longing love, Such as is felt above The Southern Tropic:— Small chance was ever his, But his proclivities Were philanthropic. There are who would insist He was misogynist— 'Tis slander horrid; For every nymph he saw, He would have liked her— raw, From toe to forehead. Then let his memory be; No misanthrope was he; No woman-hater; But just what you may call, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 Take him for all in all, An alligator. James Brunton Stephens www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 A Brisbane Reverie As I sit beside my little study window, looking down From the heights of contemplation (attic front) upon the town (Attic front, per week — with board, of course — a sov'reign and a crown);— As I sit—(these sad digressions, though, are much to be deplored)— In my lonely little attic—(it is all I can afford; And I should have mentioned, washing not included in the board);— As I sit—(these wild parentheses my very soul abhors)— High above the ills of life, its petty rumours, paltry wars— (The attic back is cheaper, but it wants a chest of drawers);— In the purpling light of half-past six before the stars are met, While the stricken sun clings fondly to his royal mantle yet, Dying glorious on the hill-tops in reluctant violet,— Just the time that favours vision, blissful moments that unbar The inner sight (assisted by a very mild cigar), To behold the things that are not, side by side with those that are,— Just the very light and very time that suit the bard's complaint, When through present, past, and future, roams his soul without restraint— When no clearer are the things that are than are the things that ain't;— With a dual apperception, metaphysical, profound, Past and present running parallel, I scan the scene around— (Were there two of us the attic front would only be a pound).— Beneath mine eyes the buried past arises from the tomb, Not cadaverous or ghostly, but in all its living bloom— (I would rather pay the odds than have a partner in my room). How the complex now contrasteth with the elemental then! Tide of change outflowing flow of ink, outstripping stride of pen! (Unless it were . but no . they only take in single men). Where trackless wilderness lay wide, a hundred ages through— I can see a man with papers, from my attic point of view, Who for gath'ring house assessments gets a very decent screw. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 Where forest-contiguity assuaged the summer heats, It is now an argued question, when the City Council meets, If we mightn't buy a tree or two to shade the glaring streets. Where no sound announced the flight of time, not even crow of cock, I can see the gun that stuns the town with monitory shock, And a son of that same weapon hired to shoot at one o'clock. Where the kangaroo gave hops, the “old man” fleetest of the fleet, Mrs. Pursy gives a “hop” to-night to all the town's élite, But her “old man” cannot hop because of bunions on his feet.

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