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Ada Cambridge - By The Camp Fire
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Ah, `twas but now I saw the sun flush pink on yonder placid tide; 
The purple hill-tops, one by one, were strangely lit and glorified; 
And yet how sweet the night has grown, with palest starlights dimly sown! 

Those mountain ranges, far and near, enclasp me,— sharply pencilled there, 
Like blackest sea-waves,—outlined here, like phantoms in the luminous air, 
Between that cold and quiet sky, and the calm river running by. 

The gum-trees whisper overhead, and, delicately dark and fine, 
Their lovely shadow-patterns shed across the paths of white moonshine. 
The golden wattles glimmer bright, scenting this cool, transparent night. 

What spirits wake when earth is still? I hear wild wood-notes softly swell. 
There`s the strange clamour, hoarse and shrill, that drowns the bull-frogs` hollow bell; 
And there`s the plaintive rise and fall of the lone mopoke`s cuckoo-call. 

And nearer, an opossum flits above the firelight, pauses, peers— 
I see a round ball where he sits, with pendant tail and pointed ears; 
And two are gruffly snarling now in hollows of yon upper bough. 

Hark! that`s the curlew`s thrilling scream. What mountain echoes it has stirred! 
The sound goes crying down the stream, the wildest bird-note ever heard. 
And there`s a crane, with legs updrawn, gone sailing out to meet the dawn. 

It croaks its farewell, like a crow, beating the air with soft, wide wings. 
On the white water down below its vague grey shadow-shape it flings, 
And, dream-like, passes out of sight, a lonely vision of the night. 

Ah me! how weird the undertones that thrill my wakeful fancy through! 
The river softly creeps and moans; the wind seems faintly crying too. 
Such whisperings seem to come and pass across the orchis-flower`d grass. 

The darkness gather`d all around is full of rustlings, strange and low, 
The dead wood crackles on the ground, and shadowy shapes flit to and fro; 
I think they are my own dim dreams, wandering amongst the woods and streams. 

The tangled trees seem full of eyes,—still eyes that watch me as I sit; 
A flame begins to fall and rise, their glances come and go with it. 
And on the torn bark, rough and brown, I hear soft scratchings up and down. 

Sometimes I hear a sound of feet,—a slow step through the darkness steals; 
And then I think of yours, my sweet, in spirit following at my heels; 
For leagues before, around, behind, part me from all my human-kind. 

Coo-ey!—the long vibration throbs in countless echoes through the hills. 
The lonely forest wakes and sobs, and then no sound the silence fills,— 
Only the night-frogs` bubbling shriek in every water-hole and creek; 

Only a rush of wind in flight, as startled wild-ducks flutter past, 
Quivering and twinkling in the light, skimming the shining water fast; 
And ripples from a black swan`s breast, darting from out its rushy nest. 

How is`t in England?—Sunday morn, and organ-music, love, with you. 
That breath of memory, idly born, like a great storm-wind shakes me through. 
Ah, darling! bend your head and pray,—it cannot touch you far away. 

Why do I care? My house of God, beyond all thought, is grand and great! 
My prayerful knees, upon the sod, its flowers and grasses consecrate. 
And I can see Him in the stars, undimmed by walls and window-bars. 

Great Nature spreads her wondrous book, and shows me all her pages fair; 
To me the language, when I look, seems but a letter here and there— 
The very stones beneath me teach a lore beyond my utmost reach. 

For all my pain, and toil, and strife, I see so dimly what is true! 
O Art! O Science! O great Life! I grasp thee by so faint a clue! 
No more of ocean tides I dream than minnows in their shallow stream. 

Sea without bottom, without shore, where is the plumb to fathom thee? 
O mystery! as I learn thee more, the more thy deeps are dark to me! 
But who am I, that I should scan the Divine Maker`s mighty plan? 

And yet, oh yet, if I could hear that organ-music once again, 
My soul, methinks, would lose its fear; and on this troubled heart and brain 
Some light of knowledge would be shed, and some few riddles would be read.
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