The Ballad of Tanna

She knelt by the dead, in her passionate grief,
Beneath a weird forest of Tanna;
She kissed the stern brow of her father and chief,
And cursed the dark race of Alkanna.
With faces as wild as the clouds in the rain,
The sons of Kerrara came down to the plain,
And spoke to the mourner and buried the slain.
Oh, the glory that died with Deloya!

Wahina, they whispered, Alkanna lies low,
And the ghost of thy sire hath been gladdened,
For the men of his people have fought with the foe
Till the rivers of Warra are reddened!
She lifted her eyes to the glimmering hill,
Then spoke, with a voice like a musical rill,
The time is too short; can I sojourn here still?
Oh, the Youth that was sad for Deloya!

Wahina, why linger, Annatanam said,
When the tent of a chieftain is lonely?
There are others who grieve for the light that has fled,
And one who waits here for you only!
Go leave me! she cried. I would fain be alone;
I must stay where the trees and the wild waters moan;
For my heart is as cold as a wave-beaten stone.
Oh, the Beauty that was broke for Deloya!

Wahina, why weep oer a handful of dust,
When the souls of the brave are approaching?
Oh, look to the fires that are lit for the just,
And the mighty who sleep in Arrochin!
But she turned from the glare of the flame-smitten sea,
And a cry, like a whirlwind, came over the lea
Away to the mountains and leave her with me!
Oh, the heart that was broke for Deloya!

Henry Kendall

Henry Kendall was an Australian poet born on April 18, 1839, known for his lyrical and descriptive poetry reflecting the natural world and the colonial experience of Australia. He faced personal and financial difficulties throughout his life, which deeply influenced his works. His poetry collections include 'Leaves from Australian Forests' and 'Songs from the Mountains'. Kendall passed away on August 1, 1882, leaving a lasting impact on Australian literature.

Henry Kendall

Morning in the Bush (A Juvenile Fragment.)

Henry Kendall, Simple Poetry

Syrinx

Henry Kendall, Simple Poetry

Bob

Henry Kendall, Simple Poetry

In Memory of Edward Butler

Henry Kendall, Simple Poetry

English

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Tanna

Shades of my father, the hour is approaching.
Prepare ye the cava for Yona on high;
Make ready the welcome, ye souls of Arrochin.
The Death God of Tanna speaks Yona must die.

No more will he traverse the flame sheeted mountain,
To lead forth his brothers to hunting and war;
No more will he drink from the time honoured fountain,
Nor rise in the councils of Uking-a-shaa.

His voice in the battle, loud thunder resembling,
Has died like a zephyr oerrunning the plain;
His whoop like the tempest thro forest trees trembling,
Shall never strike foemen with terror again.

The muska hung up on the cocoa is sleeping,
And Attanams spirits have gathered a-nigh
To see their destroyer; and, wailing and weeping,
Roll past on the night-breathing winds of th...

Henry Kendall

Kiama Revisited

We stood by the window and hearkened
To the voice of the runnels sea-driven,
While, northward, the mountain-heads darkened,
Girt round with the clamours of heaven.
One peak with the storm at his portal
Loomed out to the left of his brothers:
Sustained, and sublime, and immortal,
A king, and the lord of the others!
Beneath him a cry from the surges
Rang shrill, like a clarion calling;
And about him, the wind of the gorges
Went falling, and rising, and falling.
But I, as the roofs of the thunder
Were cloven with manifold fires,
Turned back from the wail and the wonder,
And dreamed of old days and desires.
A song that was made, I remembered
A song that was made in the gloaming
Of suns which are sunken and numbered
With times that my heart hath no h...

Henry Kendall

Ulmarra

Alone alone!
With a heart like a stone,
She maketh her moan
At the feet of the trees,
With her face on her knees,
And her hair streaming over;
Wildly, and wildly, and wildly;
For she misses the tracks of her lover!
Do you hear her, Ulmarra?
Oh, where are the tracks of her lover?

Go by go by!
They have told her a lie,
Who said he was nigh,
In the white-cedar glen
In the camps of his men:
And she sitteth there weeping
Weeping, and weeping, and weeping,
For the face of a warrior sleeping!
Do you hear her, Ulmarra?
Oh! where is her warrior sleeping?

A dream! a dream!
That they saw a bright gleam
Through the dusk boughs stream,
Where wild bees dwell,
And a tomahawk fell,
In moons which have faded;
Faded,...

Henry Kendall

Narrara Creek

From the rainy hill-heads, where, in starts and in spasms,
Leaps wild the white torrent from chasms to chasms
From the home of bold echoes, whose voices of wonder
Fly out of blind caverns struck black by high thunder
Through gorges august, in whose nether recesses
Is heard the far psalm of unseen wildernesses
Like a dominant spirit, a strong-handed sharer
Of spoil with the tempest, comes down the Narrara.

Yea, where the great sword of the hurricane cleaveth
The forested fells that the dark never leaveth
By fierce-featured crags, in whose evil abysses
The clammy snake coils, and the flat adder hisses
Past lordly rock temples, where Silence is riven
By the anthems supreme of the four winds of heaven
It speeds, with the cry of the streams of the fountains
It cha...

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Death Of Winona.

Down the broad Ha-Ha Wák-pa^[BS]
the band took their way to the Games at Keóza^[8]
While the swift-footed hunters by land
ran the shores for the elk and the bison.
Like magás^[BT] ride the birchen canoes
on the breast of the dark, winding river,
By the willow-fringed island they cruise,
by the grassy hills green to their summits;
By the lofty bluffs hooded with oaks
that darken the deep with their shadows;
And bright in the sun gleam the strokes
of the oars in the hands of the women.
With the band went Winona.
The oar plied the maid with the skill of a hunter.
They tarried a time on the shore of Remníca
the Lake of the Mountains.^[BU]
There the fleet hunters followed the deer,
and the tho...

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The Maid of Gerringong

Rolling through the gloomy gorges, comes the roaring southern blast,
With a sound of torrents flying, like a routed army, past,
And, beneath the shaggy forelands, strange fantastic forms of surf
Fly, like wild hounds, at the darkness, crouching over sea and earth;
Swooping round the sunken caverns, with an aggravated roar;
Falling where the waters tumble foaming on a screaming shore!
In a night like this we parted. Eyes were wet though speech was low,
And our thoughts were all in mourning for the dear, dead Long Ago!
In a night like this we parted. Hearts were sad though they were young,
And you left me very lonely, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.

Said my darling, looking at me, through the radiance of her tears:
Many changes, O my loved One, we will meet in after years;
C...

Henry Kendall