THE TIMBER SCOW

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume VII, Issue 3, 1 December 1902, Page 214

THE TIMBER SCOW

No zephyr, born of summer's gale, Waits at the harbour-mouth for me ; To leap into the rustling sail And heap the -white waves on the trail, To set the pennons fluttering free, And reef-points pattering like hail, A-driving o'er a sparkling sea. I glide so slow, so low on steady keel, I scarce can feel The frolic-airs that round the tall sails steal. The white-winged yachts race by, a-heel, The decks a-drip with dashing spray ; With dipping bows and slanting keel, And sails that strain and swell to feel The boisterous ocean-breezes play ; And slender quivering masts that reel Against a sky of steel and grey.

Illustrated by Trevor Lloyd.

Broad-bosomed, leaning on the floods I go Unshaken, slow ; Nor heed the shocks of froward waves at ebb and flow. But storm is in yon looming cloud ; The gaunt sails groan and flap and fill, The sullen swells a-shoulder, crowd And break upon the lee, and loud The shattering thunder roars, and shrill The whistling wind in rope and shroud, And night and storm must work their will. But driving on before a roaring wind, A course I find ; Knowing the Hand that guides, the^storm cau loose or bind. I bear no treasui-e-trove of gold ; Nor freight of precious merchandise ; Of Eastern treasures, rare and old, Deep-hidden in the dusky hold, To wake in languid beauty's eyes A sparkle covetous and cold, And in the breast half-uttered sighs. I have not moved amid green tropic isles, Where Summer smiles, And blue seas flash and flame forever, miles on miles.

By lonely beach and bar, I go ; By dock and pier and sea- walled town ; By rock and headland moving slow, Though waters ebb or waters flow : Beneath the shadow of the frown Of iron cliffs, where seethe below White breakers raging up and down ; And wait at river-mouths where foaming free The waters flee ; And like fond lovers leap upon the bosom of the sea. For me the bushmen's axes ring, And forest-aisles come crashing down. To me the brawling waters bring The stripped, unsightly, sodden thing That lately reared a woody crown, Among the forest kings a king, Now stai'k and fallen, scarred and brown ; That waved and whispei'ed to the wooing breeze That swept the trees, Like the deep murmur of a thousand thousand bees.

The dams are burst ; the floods are free, And roariug streams come down amain, By tens and scores, by two, by three, The drift of logs ride to the sea, And dip and dive and rise again A-shoulder, plunging heavily In waters swoll'n by autumn rain. And roll and range by shingle and by sand And pebbly strand, To leap the foaming falls by rainbow arches spanned. Low and laden, I turn and creep By bank and shallow and sandy shore; Where drowsy waves on the shingle sleep, And mists of the river roll and sweep O'er the flats and the marshes 1 reedy floor, To the bar where breakers laugh and leap; And th' open sea lies leagues before. But the musk o' the woods I bear with me And the salt o' the sea; And the rough bark odours that cling to the fallen tree.