In the Land of Dreams

A bridle-path in the tangled mallee,
With blossoms unnamed and unknown bespread,
And two who ride through its leafy alley,
But never the sound of a horses tread.

And one by one whilst the foremost rider
Puts back the boughs which have grown apace,
And side by side where the track is wider,
Together they come to the olden place.

To the leaf-dyed pool whence the mallards flattered,
Or ever the horses had paused to drink;
Where the word was said and the vow was uttered
That brighten for ever its weedy brink.

And Memory closes her sad recital,
In Fates cold eyes there are kindly gleams,
While for one brief moment of blest requital,
The parted have met, in the Land of Dreams.


13th June, 1882

Mary Hannay Foott

Mary Hannay Foott was an Australian poet known for her works that capture the spirit and landscape of colonial Australia. Her most famous poem, 'Where the Pelican Builds', reflects the challenges and beauty of the pioneering experience. She was notable for being one of the first Australian poets to gain recognition, with her works regularly published in Australian newspapers and magazines of the time. Her poetry often explored themes of nature, human perseverance, and the Australian identity.

Mary Hannay Foott

At the Fords of Jordan

Mary Hannay Foott, Simple Poetry

No Message

Mary Hannay Foott, Simple Poetry

The Belated Swallow

Mary Hannay Foott, Simple Poetry

The Melbourne International Exhibition

Mary Hannay Foott, Simple Poetry

English

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Where the Pelican Builds

The unexplored parts of Australia are sometimes spoken of by the bushmen of Western Queensland as the home of the pelican, a bird whose resting place, so far as the writer knows, is seldom, if ever, found.

The horses were ready, the rails were down,
But the riders lingered still,
One had a parting word to say,
And one had his pipe to fill.
Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer,
And one with a grief unguessed.
We are going, they said as they rode away,
Where the pelican builds her nest!

They had told us of pastures wide and green,
To be sought past the sunsets glow;
Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit;
And gold neath the rivers flow.
And thirst and hunger were banished words
When they spoke of that unknown West;
No drought they dreade...

Mary Hannay Foott

Wentworth

Tis a new thing for Australia that the waters to her bear
One who seeks not strength of sunshine, or the breath of healing air;
One who reeks not of her riches, nor remembers she is fair;
One who land and houses, henceforth, holdeth not, for evermore;
Coming for such narrow dwelling as the dead need, to the shore
Named aforetime by the spirit to receive the garb it wore.

Tis a strange thing for Australia that her name should be the name
Breathed ere death by one who loved her, claiming, with a patriots claim,
Earth of her as chosen grave-place; rather than the lands of fame;
Rather than the Sacred City where a sepulchre was sought
For the noblest hearts of Europe; rather than the Country fraught
With the incense of the altars whence our household gods were brought.

Mary Hannay Foott

The Road Back

Come, walk with me and Memory;
And let us see what we shall see:
A wild green lane of stones and weeds
That to a wilder woodland leads.
An old board gate, the lichens crust,
Whose ancient hinges croak with rust.
A vale; a creek; and a bridge of planks,
And the wild sunflowers that wall its banks:
A path that winds through shine and shade
To a ferned and wildflowered forest glade;
Where, out of a grotto, a voice replies
With a faint hollo to your voice that cries:
And every wind that passes seems
A foot that follows from Lands o' Dreams.
A voice, a foot, and a shadow, too,
That whispers of things your childhood knew:
A girl that waited, a boy that came,
And an old beech tree where he carved her name;
Where still he sees her, whom still he hears
B...

Madison Julius Cawein

Happy Days

A fringe of rushes, one green line
Upon a faded plain;
A silver streak of water-shine,
Above, tree-watchers twain.
It was our resting-place awhile,
And still, with backward gaze,
We say: Tis many a weary mile,
But there were happy days.

And shall no ripple break the sand
Upon our farther way?
Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand?
Or leafy tree-tops sway?
The gold of dawn is surely met
In sunsets lavish blaze;
And, in horizons hidden yet,
There shall be happy days.

Mary Hannay Foott

Mary.

One balmy summer night, Mary,
    Just as the risen moon
Had thrown aside her fleecy veil,
    We left the gay saloon;
And in a green, sequestered spot,
    Beneath a drooping tree,
Fond words were breathed, by you forgot,
    That still are dear to me, Mary,
        That still are dear to me.

Oh, we were happy, then, Mary--
    Time lingered on his way,
To crowd a lifetime in a night,
    Whole ages in a day!
If star and sun would set and rise
    Thus in our after years,
The world would be a paradise,
    And not a vale of tears, Mary,
        And not a vale of tears.

I live but in the past, Mary--
    The glorious day of old!
When love was hoarded in the heart,
    As misers hoard their gold:
And often like a bridal...

George Pope Morris

New Country

Condè had come with us all the way,
Eight hundred miles, but the fortnights rest
Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay!
And Lurline was looking her very best.

Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed
Mid the silvery saltbush well content;
Where the creeks lay cool neath the gidyas¹ shade
The stock-horses clustered, travel-spent.

In the bright spring morning we left them all
Camp, and cattle, and white, and black
And rode for the Ranges westward fall,
Where the dingos trail was the only track.

Slow through the clay-pans,² wet to the knee,
With the cane-grass rustling overhead;
Swift oer the plains with never a tree;
Up the cliffs by a torrents bed.

Bridle on arm for a mile or more
We toiled, ere w...

Mary Hannay Foott