A shabby volume on the ledge;
An idle hand that drew it forth;
Like him who slumbered in the sedge,
There dwelt the Prophet of the North.
Wayfarer! --- Erst with heavy tread
The paths of Story wont to trace---
What glamour on thine eyes is shed;
That fain thou lingerest in the place?
Methought the Masters all were gone,
Or quenched their fires --- by age bestowed;
Yet now, behold, a light hath shone;
Once more a message is bestowed!
From shores held sterile there hath sailed
A galleon filled with richest freight.
O truthful picture slow unveiled!
O precious word long untranslate!
We gazed --- yet scarce might understand.
We hearkened --- to the voice alone.
We praised the labour of his hand,
And still his heart remained unknown.
We drank with him the joy of Spring;
In Cossack foray learnt to ride;
With him we heard the gipsies sing---
The cannon by the Euxine tide.
Then --- sleepless in the hour when none
Save humankind unslumbering lie---
When stars are pallid and the sun
Unlit, and weaklings faint and die--
With sudden skill we read the rune---
All tremulous and yet elate---
"Dread thou no dole; crave thou no boon;
Be Duty unto thee as Fate!"
First published in The Queenslander, 1 June 1889
