Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Walter Murdoch (1874–1970). The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse. 1918.

By H. M. Green

190 . Bush Goblins

THE LOCUST drones along the drowsy noon,

The brown bee lingers in the yellow foam,

Blossom on blossom searching deep, but soon

Slides heavy-wingèd home.

The vacant air, half visible, complains

All overburdened of its noontide hour;

Sound after sound in heavy silence wanes

At the strong sun’s burning power.

Let the strong sun burn down the barren plain

And scour the empty heaven, and twist the air

To filmiest flickerings, o’er us in vain

His hollow vault doth glare.

For us gnarled boughs and massive boles o’ershade,

And tall bulrushes guard us with green spears

From the grim noon; our dewy jewelled glade

Never a footstep nears.

Come feast with us; behold our fragrant store

Of candied locusts, that no longer drone

Through summer eves, but transmigrated, pour

Thin goblin monotone

Through eucalyptine stillness as we rouse

Our gnomy anthem to the answering trees,

While gold-eyed toad-guards of our hidden house

Croak full-fed choruses.

Come visit us; O follow till you find

In some green shade our secret banquetings,

Where brolgas dance, and, some great stem behind,

A hidden lyrebird sings.

Ask of the eaglehawk in the blue air,

Ask of the chattering parrot, he should tell;

Fat possum in the tree bole, furry bear,

Us beast and bird know well.

The silver lizard on the sun-baked stone,

The green-flecked tree-snake in his circle coiled,

Dreaming of evil, man, and man alone

Missed us, howe’er he toiled.

Come feast thou with us; ancient kings of all,

We are the mystery at the heart of noon,

Weird unseen chucklers when long shadows fall

From the misleading moon.

We are the spirits of distorted trees;

We beckon down dim gullies, far astray,

Till lost, deep lost, the wild-eyed traveller sees

Dark at the heart of day.

And oh, we laughed about his last choked groans

Beside the water that he sought so long,

And oh, we danced about his clean-picked bones

To a gnomy undersong.

For all the day we chuckle and provoke

With mocking shapes and noises each bright hour,

But when dark even from his grave hath broke

Then are we lords of power.