  The drover’s camp one evening in hushful calm lay still, Its fitful flickering firelight made bright the western hill; The bronzed and bearded drover had stretched himself to rest, In childlike peaceful slumber, his arms across his breast. His saddle formed a pillow, the thick, coarse grass his bed, While mounting sparks were casting a halo round his head. Then sweetest dreams came pouring to charm the weary brain, He saw his mob of cattle outspread upon the plain; But curling whip lay silent, and watchful dog slept sound, As deeper grew the stillness which held its sway around: Thro’ forest paths an angel had sped with hurried haste, The twining leaves he forced apart until he reached the waste. Past many growing townships, o’er tracks of sun-dried plain, And rocky hills and rivers, he brought his tale of pain. Long shadows rose to meet him; in groups they gathered round, While trees unbent and listened in reverence o’er the ground, Where hallowed steps had fallen, where an angel late had trod, Whose holy feet with pity, and love, and faith were shod. The drover heard those footsteps; he felt an icy breath, And, turning round in greeting, beheld the face of Death, A vision bending o’er him, and holding, gently down, A tiny suffering infant whose life had well-nigh flown. It raised its fragile body, and softly turned to rest Beside him, closely nestling against his massive breast. And, as the shadows parted, the small wan features smiled Upon him, oh! so sweetly, and he saw it was his child. A moment more, it left him, and thro’ the dimness fled Back to the Angel vision, with tiny hands outspread. Fall on the stricken drover, who lies in darkness there. When morning breaks, the sunshine streams over a moving throng Of cattle pressing onward, while breezes bear along The sound of parrots’ chattering; and sweet toned bell-pbirds sing, Like chimes on a Sabbath morning, their notes through the bushland ring, And tall trees wave their branches athwart the rosy light, Forgetting in their pleasure, the sorrow of the night. The drover’s world is darkened, his heart is wrung with pain, As gazing o’er the hill-side where his ash-strewn camp had lain, He thinks of the vanished spirit and heavily droops his head, While sadness sits in his saddle—he knows his child is dead. In God’s own Heavenly Kingdom—His home of love and light. |
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