Henry Kendall (Генри Кендалл)

Songs from the Mountains (1880). Persia

I am writing this song at the close
 Of a beautiful day of the spring
In a dell where the daffodil grows
 By a grove of the glimmering wing;
From glades where a musical word
 Comes ever from luminous fall,
I send you the song of a bird
 That I wish to be dear to you all.

I have given my darling the name
 Of a land at the gates of the day,
Where morning is always the same,
 And spring never passes away.
With a prayer for a lifetime of light,
 I christened her Persia, you see;
And I hope that some fathers to-night
 Will kneel in the spirit with me.

She is only commencing to look
 At the beauty in which she is set;
And forest and flower and brook,
 To her are all mysteries yet.
I know that to many my words
 Will seem insignificant things;
But you who are mothers of birds
 Will feel for the father who sings.

For all of you doubtless have been
 Where sorrows are many and wild;
And you know what a beautiful scene
 Of this world can be made by a child:
I am sure, if they listen to this,
 Sweet women will quiver, and long
To tenderly stoop to and kiss
 The Persia I've put in a song.

And I'm certain the critic will pause,
 And excuse, for the sake of my bird,
My sins against critical laws—
 The slips in the thought and the word.
And haply some dear little face
 Of his own to his mind will occur—
Some Persia who brightens his place—
 And I'll be forgiven for her.

A life that is turning to grey
 Has hardly been happy, you see;
But the rose that has dropped on my way
 Is morning and music to me.
Yea, she that I hold by the hand
 Is changing white winter to green,
And making a light of the land—
 All fathers will know what I mean:

All women and men who have known
 The sickness of sorrow and sin,
Will feel—having babes of their own—
 My verse and the pathos therein.
For that must be touching which shows
 How a life has been led from the wild
To a garden of glitter and rose,
 By the flower-like hand of a child.

She is strange to this wonderful sphere;
 One summer and winter have set
Since God left her radiance here—
 Her sweet second year is not yet.
The world is so lovely and new
 To eyes full of eloquent light,
And, sisters, I'm hoping that you
 Will pray for my Persia to-night.

For I, who have suffered so much,
 And know what the bitterness is,
Am sad to think sorrow must touch
 Some day even darlings like this!
But sorrow is part of this life,
 And, therefore, a father doth long
For the blessing of mother and wife
 On the bird he has put in a song.

1. Early Poems (1859-70). In Memoriam—Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse
2. Other Poems (1871-82). How the Melbourne Cup was Won
3. Early Poems (1859-70). Cui Bono?
4. Other Poems (1871-82). Aboriginal Death-Song
5. Other Poems (1871-82). Sydney Exhibition Cantata

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