In the South Pacific

A vision of a savage land,
A glimpse of cloud-ringed seas;
A moonlit deck, a murderous hand;
No more, no more of these!

No more! how heals the tender flesh,
Once torn by savage beast?
The wound, re-opening, bleeds afresh,
Each season at the least!

O day, for dawn of thee how prayed
The spirit, sore distressed;
Thy latest beams, upslanting, made
A pathway for the blest.

And robes, new-donned, of the redeemed,
Gleamed white past griefs dark pall:
So this, a day of death which seemed,
A birthday let us call.

Remembering, such day as this,
A soul from flesh was shriven,
By death, Gods messenger of bliss;
A spirit entered Heaven.

Thy dying head no loving breast
Upheld, O early slain;
But soon, mid welcoming saints, twas prest
Where Gods own Child has lain!

Though none at death broke Bread for thee,
Or poured the Sacred Wine;
Thou, nourished at His Board, dost see
The Substance of the Sign.

We mourned thee! Heavens new born, and rich
Past all our prayers could claim,
Secure in blessedness, of which
We have not learnt the name.

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

The Aurora Australis

Mary Hannay Foott, Simple Poetry

No Message

Mary Hannay Foott, Simple Poetry

In the Land of Dreams

Mary Hannay Foott, Simple Poetry

Sonnets - II - The New Year

Mary Hannay Foott, Simple Poetry

English

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Up North

Into Thy hands let me fall, O Lord,
Not into the hands of men,
And she thinned the ranks of the savage horde
Till they shrank to the mangrove fen.

In a rudderless boat, with a scanty store
Of food for the fated three,
With her babe and her stricken servitor
She fled to the open sea.

Oh, days of dolor and nights of drouth,
While she watched for a sail in vain,
Or the tawny tinge of a river mouth,
Or the rush of the tropic rain.

The valiant woman! Her feeble oar
Sufficed, and her fervent prayer
Was heard, though she reached but a barren shore,
And died with her darling there.

For the demons of murder and foul disgrace
On her hearthstone dared not light;
But the Angel of Womanhood held the place,
And its site is a holy site.

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

Davids Lament for Jonathan

Thou wast hard pressed, yet God concealed this thing
From me; and thou wast wounded very sore,
And beaten down, O son of Israels king,
Like wheat on threshing-flour.

Thou, that from courtly and from wise for friend
Didst choose me, and in spite of ban and sneer,
Rebuke and ridicule, until the end
Didst ever hold me dear!

All night thy body on the mountain lay:
At morn the heathen nailed thee to their wall.
Surely their deaf gods hear the songs to-day
Oer the slain House of Saul!

Oh! if that witch were here thy father sought,
Methinks I een could call thee from thy place,
To shift thy mangled image from my thought,
Seeing thy souls calm face.

I sorrowed for the words the prophet spoke,
That set me rival to thy fathers line;

Mary Hannay Foott

To the Virgin Mary

Mother of Him we call the Christ,
No halo round thy brows we paint,
Incense and prayer we offer not,
Nor mind to title thee as saint.

And yet, no womans name, of all
With honour from the ages sent,
Mary, is aureoled like thine,
With love and grief and glory blent!

Oh wisely was it that He chose,
Who the unwritten future reads,
To teach the after-world, through thee,
What cherishers Messiah needs.

Thou heardst the angels prophecy,
The tidings which the shepherds brought,
Anna and Simeon praising God,
And sawst that star the Wise Men sought!

Ah, who of us could bear, like thee,
With meekness, Gods triumphal light;
Then, still believing, with His Charge,
At midnight take an exiles flight?

Throughout the Son...

Mary Hannay Foott

Lament Of Mary Queen Of Scots

Smile of the Moon! for I so name
That silent greeting from above;
A gentle flash of light that came
From her whom drooping captives love;
Or art thou of still higher birth?
Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,
My torpor to reprove!

Bright boon of pitying Heaven! alas,
I may not trust thy placid cheer!
Pondering that Time tonight will pass
The threshold of another year;
For years to me are sad and dull;
My very moments are too full
Of hopelessness and fear.

And yet, the soul-awakening gleam,
That struck perchance the farthest cone
Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem
To visit me, and me alone;
Me, unapproached by any friend,
Save those who to my sorrow lend
Tears due unto their own.

To night the church-tower bells ...

William Wordsworth

To Mary In Heaven.

Tune - "Death of Captain Cook."


I.

    Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,
        That lov'st to greet the early morn,
    Again thou usherest in the day
        My Mary from my soul was torn.
    O Mary! dear departed shade!
        Where is thy place of blissful rest?
    Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
        Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

II.

    That sacred hour can I forget,
        Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
    Where by the winding Ayr we met,
        To live one day of parting love!
    Eternity cannot efface
        Those records dear of transports past;
    Thy image at our last embrace;
        Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

III.

    Ayr, gurgli...

Robert Burns