Gaba Tepe - poem by Lewis F. East (1915)

Gaba Tepe and Anzac Cove with lone soldier.
Pencil sketch by William Kieth Eltham
https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/C169909?image=1

On the 4th on October 1915, The Argus published the following poem 162 days after the landing it describes. The text is heroic in tone and has the feel of a poem written from afar. Gaba Tepe (or Kabatepe) is a headland overlooking the Anzac Cove at Gallipoli.

GABA TEPE

Silent and dim in the murky dawn the ghost transports lay
Shepherded close by warships grim, at anchor in Anzac Bay,
Silently boats steal out, shoreward they swiftly fly,
Straight for the beach, where the berthing heights loom darkly against the sky,
Now the sleeping foe awakes, the shrapnel screams o'erhead,
And the boats as they touch the strand are met with a hail of lead
"Forward Australians!" With answering cheer bronzed warriors leap ashore,
Racing for death-grips, steel to steel, as their grandsires fought of yore.

Torrent-like, onward they charge, faster and faster still;
For the trench-torn slope where the rifle fire crashes across the hill,
Midst the cry and the gasp and the groan, as comrades join the dead,
And the crash and the scream of the bursting shell, ever they press ahead
Onward, and on, and up, and they whirl through the thick of the fight,
On through the trenches, with ringing cheer, and thrusting to left and right,
On to the crest, and the bayonets flash, the shattered foe rallies no more,
A new and a glorious page is writ in the book of the nations' war

Knowing not fear of death, ever they charged in the van
Soldiers and brothers and heroes all, colonel and captain and man,
For the testing time was on them, and they felt that the world looked on,
Knowing their deeds, for glory or shame, would live when themselves were gone
So they fought for her honour who gave them birth, holding their lives as cheap,
Smiling at hunger and death and pain, sowing that she might reap,
Fighting from sea to sea, with the graves upon either hand,
Fighting for Freedom and Righteousness, and the fame of their own dear land

The nations salute us now, God's champion of right against wrong,
Looking at us with respect, as men at a man who is strong
For our sons have been tested by fire. Right well have they answered the test,
Brothers in arms with the world's best men, and holding their own with the best
Crowned with their glorious deeds, wrought out where their life blood flowed,
Straighten the back with pride of them, our lads who have carried the load
Hail to them, heroes all! for they have been men among men
Here's to them, lads, with a three times three! And a tiger! Again! And again!

LEWIS F. EAST.

Notes:

This poem, consisting of four eight-line verses built of rhyming couplets, was published in at least three newspapers, all in 1915 (see the sources 1- 3 below). I have been unable to find any other poetry by the poet.

If the names match correctly, Lewis F. East was a clerk in the public service, having passed his 'ordinary clerical' entrance exam in 1888 [4]. He rose in the public service to become Chief Clerk of the Customs Department before becoming the Acting Director of Maritime Navigation [5]. He continued in federal leadership of maritime matters until his retirement. I could not find any evidence of military service on the Australian War Memorial database.

Sources:

[1] GABA TEPE. (1915, October 4). The Argus (Melbourne, Vic. : 1848 - 1957), p. 7. Retrieved April 25, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article1567364 

[2] Poetry. (1915, October 16). Western Star and Roma Advertiser (Qld. : 1875 - 1948), p. 5. Retrieved April 25, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article98166660

[3] Poets' Corner. (1915, November 2). Cootamundra Herald (NSW : 1877 - 1954), p. 4. Retrieved April 25, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article139531115

[4] PUBLIC SERVICE EXAMINATIONS. (1888, March 2). The Argus (Melbourne, Vic. : 1848 - 1957), p. 5. Retrieved April 25, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article6106832

[5] DIRECTOR OF NAVIGATION (1919, May 6). The Herald (Melbourne, Vic. : 1861 - 1954), p. 10. Retrieved April 25, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article243472953

When Will Mammy Come? - Poem for recitation - 1885

This poem for recitation brings a theme we have seen before in this short series on poems for recitation, grief, loss and children. Described in one paper as a 'pathetic piece' for the pathos it draws from the audience.

It is a series of rhyming couplets, I am unsure if I have managed to add the verse breaks in the correct spaces. For my mind the first verse seems to long but it is consistent with what I saw in three of the papers in which it was published.

I cannot find any other poetic work by the Gilhooley. The poem was published in at least twelve newspapers in the period July 1885 to January 1886. There are many notes in the papers after this time noting that it was performed publicly. Some of these as concert pieces and others as competition entries. My image to accompany this post are the remarks on one of the performances as reported for a Lyric Competition in the Bendigo Independent, 26 Nov 1913.

When Will Mammy Come?

A Poem for recitation.

By Gilhooley

Twas just at evening at the office, that they came to me, and said,
With kindly words, the news to soften, that my darling wife was dead!
She I'd left that very morning, with the love light in her eye,
Who'd kissed me e'er the garden gate, and waved her hand, to say, "Good-bye!"
Within that lately happy home now cold and silent rested there!
Oh, God! It seemed a horrid dream! A dream too cruel, too hard to bear!
I staggered when the news was brought, and felt as struck by poison'd dart;
A desert drear my life appeared; a piece of stone my broken heart.
And then I thought upon our child, and choked despair for his dear sake;
And went up to my dreary home, while swelled my heart as if 'twould break.
Along the pathway from the house two little feet came toddling down;
And little Willie cried "Oh, Daddy! I's so glad 'on's come from town,
For I cannot find my Mammy!" I kissed the child, but stood, as dumb;
Whilst the tiny lad persisted, "Daddy, when will Mammy come!"
It sear'd my soul to hear him question, and my heart's wound freshly bled;
I cuddled baby close to me, kissed his face, and falt'ring said,
"When will Mammy come? my boy; she cannot come: poor Mammy's dead!"
"Dead! " cried Willy; "Mammy dead!" My heart was dead; I could not speak;
While sobbing loud, " I want my Mammy!" little baby fell asleep.
Into the house I gently bore him; into the room where the body lay;
And stood beside the still white figure, whose soul that morn had flown away.
And as I gazed upon the features, lately filled with joy and life,
Gazed upon this fearsome thing!—That morning mother, friend and wife!
God! I felt I should go crazy with my overpow'ring doom;
If I any longer tarried in that horror—haunted room!
On the morrow, little Willie sought his mother high and low,
And outside the door of death the little boy was seen to go;
Striving hard to turn the handle; crying out amid the din,
"Mammy! Mammy! I is Willie! Won't 'ou come an' let me in?"
And when the funeral was over, oft' within our silent home,
Nestling in my arms, he'd ask me, "Daddy, when will Mammy come?"

And when a few short months were over baby lay with fever ill,
And his merry feet and prattle—All the world to me!—were still.
And one evening in the Autumn, when the sun was sinking fast,
The doctor called me from my study, and said, " this night is baby's last!"
I hastened to the little chamber; there he lay upon his bed,
His little hands so thin and wasted, while the curls from his dear head
Straggled o'er a pale wee face, where the hectic flush was plain;
And his breath was hot and laboured, while throbb'd fast the fever'd brain:
God! To think of that sad picture; mark the minutes quickly go,
Taking from you the last sunshine, filling up your cup of woe,—
This to feel! Oh! none but fathers—none but mothers o'er can know!
"Daddy," said the little fellow, as if he saw a vision fair,
"Mammy's coming, I can see her; and I's going back with her;
And from my neck his hands were loosed, as his lips grew cold and numb;
"Good-bye Daddy, I's going,—going, Daddy: Mammy's come!"

This is all my little story,—tale of long and far away;
But these words are even with me, even at this distant day.
Again I the blue eyes beaming, and the hair like golden foam;
And my soul cries out, with prayer unceasing, "When to me, will Mammy come."

Sources:

When Will Mammy Come? (1885, June 19). The North Eastern Ensign (Benalla, Vic. : 1872 - 1938), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO The North Eastern Ensign.). Retrieved March 28, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article70807065

AFTERNOON SESSION. (1913, November 26). The Bendigo Independent (Vic. : 1891 - 1918), p. 7. Retrieved April 10, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article226790033

Critique and response - The Wreck of the Loch Ard Poem - 1878

In a previous post I spoke about how W. S. of Blackwood, poet of The Wreck of the Loch Ard, received a letter via The Bacchus Marsh Express either complementing or criticising his poem (it is a bit hard to tell).  As promised here is the letter [1] and the response in verse form from W. S. [2].

Just as I have been unable to expand much on the identity of W. S. beyond their initials, the identity of the author of the letter below is also unknown.  However I can reveal that the quoted poem attributed to G. F. A. was penned by George French Angus.  The Dunbar ran aground at Sydney in 1857. The poem of which a sizeable extract (11 of the 21 verses) is included in the critique letter. G.F.A.'s poem was first published in 1857 [3], and then again as part of a collection in 1874 [4].

The critique letter was printed on 27 July 1878. The newspaper printer has set it out is the preamble to the 'reflections' which I have covered previously.  W. S.'s response to the letter appears a week later on 3 August 1878.

The letter feels duplicitous in its construction, the author uses the voice of an unnamed, 'evil-minded', person, 'who is no judge of poetry' to critique W. S. I suspect that this un-named complainer and the letter's author are one and the same. For me the two greatest slurs are

W. S. is not a signature at all, but means "Wretched Stuff," and that it is not poetry but doggerel.

and

"W. S." is not a Byron or a Tennyson, but as a local poet, treating a local subject in a descriptive fashion in rhyme his production has quite sufficient merit to justify its publication in a local paper, at any rate.

I feel it is safe to dimiss GFA as the author, as a well known identity his timeline is well known an he would have return to England by the time of these publications.

To the Editor of the Express. [1]

SIR, — 

It must be a gratification to your readers to find a second time in your columns that noble poem on the wreck of the Loch Ard. Such an event is calculated to rouse the strongest feelings of our hearts, and if a man has any poetry in him to compel him to pour it forth. I am proud of Blackwood for possessing such a poet as W. S. All honour to him! I wish his merits were more widely known. I shall certainly spread his fame as far as I can. I have heard some remarks from one person, who is evidently no judge of poetry, which, as he is a person of some little influence, may, if allowed to spread, injure the fair name of W. S.; therefore I take the liberty of writing to you, sir, to expose his ignorance, and uphold the character of our "local poet." This evil minded person says that W. S. is not a signature at all, but means "Wretched Stuff," and that it is not poetry but doggerel. Now, sir, I recollect that some years ago there was a somewhat similar catastrophe at Port Jackson — the wreck of the Dunbar. Upon that occasion a poem was written, a copy of a part of which I enclose, that you may see that, in poetry, Sydney is a long way behind Blackwood, and that G. F. A. cannot for a moment be compared with W. S.

THE WRECK OF THE DUNBAR.

She rode the midnight sea,
With the land upon her lee,
Fond hearts hoped soon to be
At home again.

No moon lights up the deep,
No stars their vigils keep,
And the weary ones asleep
Dream their last dream.

The doom'd ship ploughs the wave,
She bears them to their grave,
Where the mad surges rave,
And sea fires gleam.

Visions of friendly greeting--
Dreams of to-morrow's meeting--
Alike old age are cheating,
And youth's bright crown.

Toy of the mocking wave,
Helpless her crew, to save;
The beautiful and brave
They all went down.

Then mingled with the roar
Of the wild surf on the shore
From is hundred souls and more
One shriek of woe.

That cry went up to Heaven,
As in darkness they were driven;
And the strong ship was riven
At one fell blow.

Death rides in triumph there!
Through that midnight of despair
The last faint gurgling prayer
Is heard no more.

And then the giant sea,
By God's right hand set free,
Mocks man's proud mastery,
And all is o'er? 

... 

Calm Calm sleep be their sleep
While many mourners weep
The lost ones in the deep--
The fair--the brave. 

God help the hearts that mourn--
The stricken and forlorn;
Whose ties are rudely torn
By the salt wave.

G. F. A.

You will be able to judge, sir, whether the effusion of G. F. A., or that of W. S., should more correctly be styled wretched stuff. Allowances must certainly be made for G. F. A., because the romantic incident of the rescue of the "afflicted Miss" was wanting in the case of the Dunbar. As only one life was saved on that occasion, G. F. A. could not have written such noble lines as those in which W. S. has recorded the heroic conduct of Thomas Pearce thus--

"He brought her brandy from the tide,
And rushes from the mountain side,
And both were properly applied."

The evil-minded person mentioned above says that the "tide," meaning the sea, is not the usual place to go for brandy, and that rushes are not generally found on mountains; also, that while he, not being a teetotaller, can see how brandy can be "applied" beneficially, he does not understand the "proper application" of rushes. Let him come to Blackwood. I have no doubt W. S. will explain to him how those articles are to be found in those places, and also the "proper application" of them. But let him not again presume to find fault with any poet who belongs to BLACKWOOD.

We should feel ourselves a party to deception if we did not state that the writer of the above is not a resident at Blackwood. He indulges in satire which some persons may consider "wretched stuff' instead of the poetry he criticises. All excellence is comparative, and "W. S." is not a Byron or a Tennyson, but as a local poet, treating a local subject in a descriptive fashion in rhyme his production has quite sufficient merit to justify its publication in a local paper, at any rate. His critic quotes perhaps the worst verse in the whole, and does so in a spirit which shows that he does not know or ignores the fact that literal accuracy is a drawback rather than a merit in poetry, which should be imaginative, and fanciful. Indeed the verse complained of is too accurate in its description of the acts narrated, and if we took the trouble to analyse it, and "Blackwood's" rendering of it, we could show that the latter is wrong, even according to his own canons of criticism. We commend to Blackwood's poetic soul the following verse as more worthy of his attention than the one he quotes:--

Ungoaded by the love of fame--
Untwitted by the taunts of shame--
No crowds were there to praise or blame,
Or weep suppose he died,
Yet swift as eagle on his prey,
Or lightning's flash he's borne away
Headlong dashing through the spray
He stems the seething tide!

W. S. understandably took exception to the criticism. Their response, in my opinion, is more doggerel than poetry. I suspect they deliberately plays this up as a rebuke, they hint at this at the end of verse one.

REPLY TO THE WOULD-BE CRITIC OF THE LINES ON THE WRECK OF THE LOCH ARD. [2]

Friend or critic, great unknown,
For the courtesy you've shown
A deep debt is due to thee
By Mt. Blackwood or by me.
Your opinions of our bard
Claim the following reward;
'Tis the least that we can do
To express some praise of you
While your virtues I extend
Even to the world's end.
Others' thoughts are herein shown;
Like yourself I nurse my own.
Here's the stuff that crowds rehearse,
All strung up in doggerel verse.

Critic, bard, or nameless thing,
When your fancy first took wing
Did it fly in search of fame
To procure its Dad a name ?
Its melodious siren strain
And honeyed words were all in vain,
For the music lost its charm
And wily words failed to disarm
Suspicion, though inspection proof--
All except the cloven hoof,
Which your readers saw, and smiled.
Poor old Brimstone, were you foiled?
After spending all your wit
Not a side with laughter split.

Some aver you're not so bad,
Only for the drop you had.
Though, poor wrecker, from the tide
You with brandy were supplied,
Who should make a song of this
Or your sympathy for Miss?
Some maintain it raised the steam,
Then you eyed as in a dream
The rushes in a whirlwind glide
Away from every mountain side.
Spirit medium, did they pass
While you struggled in the grass?

Keener critics, more acute,
Stranger things still attribute--
Overweening wish to shine
Fans they say that flame of thine.
We admire those lines of worth,

Pretty lines, to which you give birth.
Sydney's bard will doubtless see
They might have died but for thee.
Though you borrow every line
May you not by proxy shine?
While your scarecrow croak is clear
Rhyming dunces die from fear.
If your wit the world may share
Tell us what you've got to spare.
Feed not all on other's fame;
Sneer not, thing without a name,
Be you pedagogue or prince;
Small's your rate if taxed on sense.

Now, if vain presuming elf
Self conceit consumes thyself,
Curb the flame, and pray for sense.
Gag your mouth in self defence.
Bid not worlds in wonder gaze
At an addled critic's craze.

Or if toady tool thou art,
Sycophant to evil art,
Be the cat's-paw while you may;
You'll crack nuts another day.

Baffled critic, sad and lone,
Hope of honour fled and gone,
Conscience-smitten, ill at ease,
What can Blackwood do to please?
Pity prompts her humble muse
Both to pardon and excuse
All thy testy lines of spleen--
Pointless, pungentless, and mean.

W. S.

BLACKWOOD.

References

[1] To the Editor of the Express. (1878, July 27). The Bacchus Marsh Express (Vic. : 1866 - 1943), p. 3. Retrieved April 7, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article89702152 

[2] Advertising (1878, August 3). The Bacchus Marsh Express (Vic. : 1866 - 1945), p. 2. Retrieved September 25, 2019, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article89702507

[3] Poetry, Original and Select. (1857, October 17). Adelaide Observer (SA : 1843 - 1904), p. 2 (Supplement to the Adelaide Observer). Retrieved December 28, 2019, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article158116535

[4] ANNIVERSARY OF THE WRECK OF THE DUNBAR. (1897, August 22). Truth (Sydney, NSW : 1894 - 1954), p. 1. Retrieved April 7, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article169756185

Round the Bivouac Fire - poem for recitation - 1885

Another poem from Samuel K. Cowan. Once more with themes of warfare. This one shows an inward struggle, a warrior who recruits God, is eager to give God credit for the bloody mess they have made, yet an awareness that the same God would rather be known as the God of Peace.

This poem was published in at least ten newspapers in the first half of 1885.

Round the Bivouac Fire.

(Poem for Recitation.)

Round the bivouac fire, at midnight, lay the weary warrior-band;
Bloody were their spears with slaughter: gory was each hero's hand :
For the ghastly fight was ended : from each soul a whisper came :
"God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy Mighty Name!"  

It was beautiful, at midnight, when the bloody war was done,
When the battle clashed no longer, and no longer blazed the sun,
Calmly, in the balmy starlight, to repose out wearied limbs,
Not a sound to stir the stillness, save the sound of holy hymns: 

"Thou hast given us the glory: Thou hast cast our foes to shame!
God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy mighty name!
Thou hast given us the glory: Thou hast bade our troubles cease:
Thou art great as God of Battles: Thou art best as God of Peace!"

Peaceful was the world around them: in the peaceful summer skies
Watched the sentry stars above them, like the host of angel-eyes :
Shone the sentinel stars in splendour on each slumbering hero's head,
And the moonlight gleamed in glory on the dying and the dead.

Rosily wore the night to morning: cheerily, at their heart's desire,
Sang the soldiers songs of triumph, round the ruddy bivouac fire:
Flushed their faces were with glory: strong were they, and brave, and tall:
But the tender tears of childhood bathed the bravest face of all!

Pensive, by the gleaming firelight, mute the lonely warrior stood:
In his hand a paper grasped he, scrawled with letters, large and crude:
In his gory hands he grasped it; and the tender childly tear,
From his manly bosom welling, bathed the blood upon his spear!

Silent wore the night to morning: silent, at their heart's desire,
Watching lay the weary warriors, round the gleaming bivouac fire:
"What's the news from England, comrade! What's the sorry news for thee,
From the friends we left behind us, and our home beyond the sea?"

Then the gory paper sped he, scrawled with letters, crude and wild:
"Little news from England, comrades: 'tis a letter from my child."
"From our merry babes in England, welcome is the news!" they said:
And the soldiers lay in silence, while the warrior rose and read :

"Little brother died at Christmas: mother told me not to tell;
But I think it better, father, for you said, 'The dead are well.'
He was buried side o' Mary—mother since has never smiled
Till we meet, good-bye, dear father—from your little loving child "

Silent wore the night to morning; silent, at their soul's desire,
Lay the warriors, lost in dreaming, round the dying bivouac fire;
Home were they, once more, in England! miles were they from war's alarms!
Hark! the sudden bugle sounding! Hark! the cry: " To arms to arms! "

Out from ambush, out from thicket, charged the foemen through the plain;
"Up, my warriors! arm, my heroes! Strike for God and home, again!
For our homes, our babes, our country!" And the ruddy morning light
Flared on brandished falchions bloody still with gore of yesternight!

Purple grew the plain with slaughter-steed and rider, side by side;
And the crimson day of carnage in a crimson sunset died:
Shuddering on the field of battle glimpsed the starlight overhead,
And the moonlight, ghost-like, glimmered on the dying and the dead!

Faint and few, around the fire-light, were the stretched, out wearied limbs:
Faint and few the hero-voices that uprose in holy hymns:
Few the warriors left to whisper, "Thou hast cast our foes to shame :
God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy mighty Name!"

On the purple plain of slaughter, who is this that smiles in rest,
With a shred of gory paper lying on his mangled breast?
Nought remaining, save a fragment, scrawled with letters, crude and wild:
"Till we meet, good-bye, dear father—from your little loving child!"

Raise him softly: lift him gently stanch his lifeblood, ebbing slow:
He is breathing—he is whispering—what is this he murmurs low?
"Saved! my child—my home—my country! Father, give my pangs release:
Thou art great as God of Battles: Thou art best as God of Peace!"

SAMUEL K. COWAN M.A., in The Theatre.

Source:

Round the Bivouac Fire. (1885, April 17). The North Eastern Ensign (Benalla, Vic. : 1872 - 1938), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO The North Eastern Ensign.). Retrieved March 28, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article70806556

Reflections on the wreck of the Loch Ard - A poem (1878)

Miss Eva Carmichael Departing Australia aboard the P&O Steamer, Tanjore.
The Australasian Sketcher with Pen and Pencil

Access Under the Lino's,  Loch Ard Index here.

As mentioned in my previous blog post, this poem is a follow up from W. S. of Blackwood's poem 'The Wreck of the Loch Ard'. The Bacchus Marsh Express republished that poem on the day that this poem was written. Whether the poet had been contemplating the matter and the republishing prompted them to write is hard to determine. Perhaps rereading their poem in the paper made them realise they had more to say on the matter.

The poem clearly has Eva Carmichael in focus, even assuming her voice, as this verse shows.

Where foam-crested billows, in fury and madness,
Dealt death and destruction with hideous roar;
And left me an orphan, alone and in sadness,
A pilgrim to pine on a far-distant shore.

The only other survivor of the wreck, Tom Pearce, could not claim to be left an orphan by the event. In the first eleven verses the poet assumes Eva's voice, and the language is heavily nuanced in a way that suggests demonic forces at work in the wrecking of the ship. Those thoughts were absent from the first poem.

In the final two verses Eva clearly becomes the subject of the verse, rather than the imagined author, as the poet laments Eva's departure from Australia. It would in many ways be better to treat the final two verses as a separate poem.

Eva Carmichael departed Australia aboard the P&O Steamer, Tanjore, on the 6th August 1878 [1]. Yet to read the final two verses of this poem, written three weeks previous, you would assume she had already departed. Perhaps by this time she had departed the shelter of the Gibson home, and the journey to Melbourne indicated that a journey to Ireland (poetically referenced as Erin's Isle) was imminent.

REFLECTIONS ON THE WRECK OF THE LOCH ARD. [2]

When evening's shadows round me close,
My soul in slumber backward goes
To scenes of wreck and rending woes
By yonder goblin cave.
Where fiends the forms of bats assume,
By day concealed in caverned tomb,
But sally forth in evening's gloom
Like vultures to the wave.

Where Satan in his demon's pride,
With water imps on every side,
Commands the billows far and wide
With spells to scathe and sere:
Till terror-seized by ocean's swell,
And sounds of victims' drowning yell,
And sights of which I dare not tell,
My senses sink in fear.

'Midst scenes appalling to the eye,
And meteors flashing through the sky,
And victims unprepared to die,
My brain with fever burns;
Till bathed in perspiration's stream
In frenzy wild for help I scream--
The sounds awake me from the dream
And consciousness returns!

Now, bereft of home and gladness;
Family, friends, and comrades brave:
Sunk at once in bitter sadness,
Hopeless by the cruel wave.

Still my senses seem to borrow
Sounds that ape the ocean's swell.
And forms, alas! I left in sorrow
Gasping still a last farewell.

Where foam-crested billows, in fury and madness,
Dealt death and destruction with hideous roar;
And left me an orphan, alone and in sadness,
A pilgrim to pine on a far-distant shore.

Where heartrending cries never fade from my hearing,
Where grim visions sinking in death seem to glare;
Where my heart-breaking parents, midst foam disappearing,
Cling to brothers and sisters in pangs of despair!

They who smiled at my gladness, my sorrows would share,
And tenderly turn every grief from my brow;
Oh! how could I value their infinite care
If Providence pleased to award it me now!

But, alas! cruel fate has destined us to sever,
And leave me lamenting in anguish and pain,
To mourn o'er the dear ones departed forever;
Oh! how can I live and not see them again!

May the sun that descends to enliven with blossom
The hearts of the herds or the lambs on the lea,
Not dispel the dark gloom that abounds in my bosom
And shed a kind ray of condolence on me?

Victoria's hearts and her land of green bushes,
While memory survives will be honoured by me;
Though the home of my childhood to memory rushes
And binds me more closely now, Erin to thee!

….

May your bark in safety glide
O'er the ocean's billows wide,
Till you view with native pride
The land you long to see, Eva.
Where friends of youth in Erin's isle
Your cares with kindness will beguile,
And the gentle shamrock's smile
Awaits to welcome thee, Eva.

Though we sadly say adieu
Our hearts in unison beat true
With love for Erin's isle and you,
Since there you wish to dwell, Eva;
There may you be by fortune blessed,
By care and happiness caressed.
Though loth to part, you say we must,
Then ever fare thee well, Eva!

W. S., Blackwood, 13th July 1878.

Source:

[1] NEWS OF THE DAY. (1878, August 7). The Age (Melbourne, Vic. : 1854 - 1954), p. 2. Retrieved April 4, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article199354529

[2] REFLECTIONS ON THE WRECK OF THE LOCH ARD. (1878, July 27). The Bacchus Marsh Express (Vic. : 1866 - 1945), p. 3. Retrieved September 25, 2019, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article89702151 

The Wreck of the Loch Ard - A poem by W. S. of Blackwood (1878) with some notes

Thank you Carmel Wooding for your reading of the poem (above). You can find Carmel via her Facebook page 'Carmel Wooding Bush Poet'.

This particular post has had a gestation best measured in years. Today I post the first of a series of poems about the ill fated Ship, the Lord Ard, which was wrecked off the Victorian coast at a place that now bears its name, Loch Ard Gorge. The Loch Ard story is well told at the nearby Flagstaff Hill Maritime Museum in Warrnambool. There are also a number of articles about the wreck on this blog already, so much so I have created an index.

This post will simply present the first poem in the series, in both written and audio form. Other posts will provide:

• a subsequent poem which is a reflection on the events written some weeks later
• an analysis of the poem from a poetic perspective
• a poetic critique of the poem and the author's poetic response
• a shallow dive into questions of authorship with a collection of thematically unrelated poems by Zachariah Sutcliffe.

The Wreck of the Loch Ard

The ship Loch Ard from England sailed
For Hobson's Bay. Alas! she failed,
And deeply is her fate bewailed.
All souls but two are lost!

Near Moonlight Head, a place forlorn,
With close-reefed topsails leeward borne
She, June the first, at dawning morn
Was wrecked upon the coast.

The night before, all glad and gay
Retired with thoughts of Hobson's Bay
And landing there the coming day,
They softly fall asleep.

Save steady breezes sighing low
And fitful splash upon the prow
All's still above and hushed below--
She glides along the deep.

At four a.m.
The captain throws the deep sea lead;
Hoarse sounds are heard of rocks ahead,
Which roused the slumberers from their bed.

They wake to fall asleep in death!
Midst gurgling sounds of stifling breath,
And seething wave and reel and shock,
And bumping ship and callous rock,
And falling spars and crashing mast,
And mangled bodies grim and ghast, 
And screech and creak and horrid sound,
And lurid lightning's flashing round,
And faces pale amidst the glare,
And cries for help and sounds of prayer,
And piping winds and tempest's swell,
And ocean yawning like a hell!
Redoubling force and fatal stroke,
And sounds that peals of thunder make,
And shriek and groan and drowning yell,
And waves by fury driven,
And breakers' roar on rock-bound shore,
And cries for help to Heaven!

The captain last seen at his stand,
Ready to help or give command,
In sorrow shook a lady's hand
And tearfully he said,

"If from this awful scene of strife,
Dear lady, you escape with life,
Tell, Eva, tell my widowed wife
I like a sailor died!"

No more was seen of the affray
Except some fighting with the spray.
Young Pearce was early borne away
And now had reached the coast.

There wet and weary does he stray,
Loth to leave and loth to stay.
All signs of life had died away
He thought all else were lost.

While musing on that boisterous beach
Through dangers great he had to reach,
His ear caught something like a screech--
It was a human shout.

A floating spar was dancing there
Clutched by a maiden in despair.
The hero did at once declare
"I'll die, or bring her out."

Ungoaded by the love of fame--
Untwitted by the taunts of shame--
No crowds were there to praise or blame,
Or weep suppose he died,

Yet swift as eagle on his prey,
Or lightning's flash he's borne away
Headlong dashing through the spray
He stems the seething tide!

Now desperate strains our hero brave,
He steals a victim from the grave
And lays her in a lonely cave
Till better may be done;

Then brings he brandy from the tide
And rushes from the mountain side
And both are properly applied--
His prize is so far won.

On rushy bed, where she was laid
Unconsciously, the slumbering maid
Breathed a deep sigh and trembling said
"Tell mother I am here;

And tell dear father, tell him how
I'd like him to be with me now,
He'd take these seaweeds from my brow
And kiss his Eva dear."

Those words near broke the hero's heart;
No mother has she now,
Nor father dear with playful art
To kiss his Eva's brow;
No brother's help she now may crave
Nor sister's words to cheer;
All, all, have found a watery grave
That were to Eva dear!

"Then I will bathe thy brow," he said,
"And will a father be,
Pray drink this cordial now sweet maid
Our Father sent by me.
And wisdom with a heavenly grace
May animate thy brow,
And reason light that once bright face
So dull and cloudy now."

Then soon like flowers at dawning day
Her opening eyes yet wet with dew
Shone bright in reason's genial ray--
Her face assumed its radiant hue.
Oh! cruel fate, assuage her tears;
Thou who hast laid her kindred low
Enable me to quell her fears
Protect her, and subdue her woe.

With consciousness come grief and fears,
Enquiring looks and silent tears;
While through the gloomy cave she peers
Sad horror o'er her creeps,
She sees, for garments seaward gone,
Rushes are kindly o'er her thrown.
In gratitude to Pearce alone
The blushing maiden weeps.

With mingled horror and surprise
The scene affects the lady's eyes,
Who to her brave deliverer sighs
In gratitude and grief.
Distracted by his tale of woe
She begs that he too may not go
And leave her situated so
Unless to find relief.

He said, "your wish is granted, miss,
Now take an ample draught of this,
A cordial that can soothe distress
Or woe however deep."
Both deeply drank, and it was well;
The spirit acted like a spell,
And in short time both sufferers fell
Into a balmy sleep.

Soon much refreshed young Pearce arose,
And seeing the lady in repose
For further comforts once more goes
To search that dreary coast.

He finds a gloomy rock-bound shore
From whence he may return no more;
Unless their heights he can climb o'er
Both lives he knows are lost.

He faced the rocks with nerves of steel,
His only thoughts the lady's weal
His youthful bosom burns with zeal
To find some timely aid.

Then up the cliffs, like ocean sprite,
He nimbly climbs to dizzy height
To find assistance where he might
To nurse the famished maid.

The noble youth, though tired and worn,
With scratch and bruise and garments torn,
Though baffled oft and downward borne
Unconquered yet remains;

Again his eyes are upwards cast,
Now with a firmness unsurpassed,
And grips more desperate than the last
Those awful heights he gains.

And shortly here our hero finds
A track that to a station winds;
This he resolves to keep;
He landward started with a bound
And kept the track until he found
A shepherd with his sheep.

The shepherd heard his tale of woe,
And told him not to further go.
"Return at once" he said,
"And I will to the station ride,
Some aid and comforts to provide,
Meantime you tend the maid."

Gibson, a man of generous heart,
With others quickly made a start
To the disastrous scene;
Eager to succour or to save
They shortly reach the well-known cave
No lady could be seen!

Soon after Pearce had climbed the rock,
The maid in fear and trembling woke
And found she was alone.
With bated breath and anxious fears,
Afraid to speak, she thinks she hears
At times a dismal moan.

Can that be Pearce, in thought she said,
Can he be dying--is he dead:
Or is he here, or has he fled?
Desperate with fear, at last she cried,
"Ho, Pearce, are you not coming?"

Startled where silence reigned profound,
Voices like hers rise from the ground,
Words like her own are whispered round,
Each gloomy nook returns a sound
Like "coming, coming, coming."

Dark shadows seem to float in air,
While eyes like cats in darkness glare;
The maid in fear and wild despair
Ran screaming from the cave;
But soon fresh cause for fears abound,
The crags with yells of "cooey" resound,
She feared wild natives were around
Who had no heart to save.

"The savages are near," she said,
And midst the bushes cowered.
"I hear their yell, I hear their tread;
Heaven! must I be devoured!"
"Oh! Providence, with power to save,"
Exclaimed the afflicted Miss;
"Why take me from the kindly wave
To die a death like this?"

Here must I lay my aching head,
Whate'er my fate may be,
If Heaven ere helped a friendless maid
It must be kind to me."
But hark! a footstep coming here
The lady tried to fly,
But falling in some bushes near
Cried "Help me, God, I die!"

Still rushing forward Gibson said
"Your cry is heard, you've naught to fear."
He threw his coat around the maid
And gave kind words of cheer.

Now charmed indeed are the lady's ears;
Those words like angel's accents sound,
No savage monster there appears
But kind and Christian friends are round.

Again like incubus dispelled,
Her fears have faded with the dream;
In grateful raptures now she's held
And Hope reflects a ray serene.

Then with a modesty and grace
That well became the lady here,
She looked in Gibson's kindly face
And anxious asked if Pearce was near.

Again her heart rebounds with joy,
Again is apprehension fled,
Again she sees the sailor boy
By kind and generous Gibson led.

"Take comfort now, my youthful friends,
Affliction's tears we all must shed,
But Providence will make amends,"
The hospitable squatter said.

Then we will hasty homeward go,
Where care and comfort shall be thine;
Where tender hearts with kindness glow
To comfort you with all that's mine.

And soon they reach his mansion fair,
Where worldly blessings round them flow;
The lady meets a mother's care
And all the household sooth their woe.

By care and kindness thus caressed,
The wrecked in health and spirits mend;
And Gibson's by Australia blessed--
He to the friendless proves a friend.

W.S. Blackwood, June 18, 1878.

Notes

I first encountered this poem in the online archive of the State Library of Victoria (SLV), where it is attributed to Zachariah Sutcliffe on an undated poetic brochure. Subsequent investigation suggests it is better attributed to a 'W. S. of Blackwood'. This later poet I have been unable to provide much biographical material about, we assume he lives in Blackwood in 1878 and it would be safe to say he reads the Bacchus Marsh Express.

This poem was written on the 18th June 1878, a fortnight after news of the wreck first broke. The poem was first published by The Bacchus Marsh Express 29 June 1878 [1], and then again by the same paper on 13 July [2]. 

On the day the poem was published for the second time, 'W. S.' wrote a sequel which was published on 27 July [3]. Placement of the second poem within the paper on 27 July seems strategic as it immediately follows a somewhat ambiguous compliment or criticism from an anonymous contributor [4].  W. S. then writes a response in poetic form to the critic [5], which is published by the paper on 17 August.

The paper publishes the poem a number of times as a stand alone pamphlet to raise money for the Loch Ard Fund. Given the clear and repeated use of 'W. S.' in the paper's publication, I doubt that the pamphlet where I first encountered poem is one of these. The SLV pamphlet was printed in Emerald Hill (South Melbourne) and the Bacchus Marsh Express had its printing house in Bacchus Marsh [6].

The poem's 47 verses have a complex structure and if you have read newspaper reports of the wreck, it would be possible to consider a source analysis from the newspaper coverage (a project I have not yet attempted).

I express my gratitude to fellow Trove participant, ‘cvening’, for cleaning up much of the text used here.

References

[1] THE WRECK OF THE LOCH ARD. (1878, June 29). The Bacchus Marsh Express (Vic. : 1866 - 1945), p. 3. Retrieved September 25, 2019, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article89702371

[2] THE WRECK OF THE LOCH ARD. (1878, July 13). The Bacchus Marsh Express (Vic. : 1866 - 1945), p. 4. Retrieved September 25, 2019, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article89702705

[3] REFLECTIONS ON THE WRECK OF THE LOCH ARD. (1878, July 27). The Bacchus Marsh Express (Vic. : 1866 - 1945), p. 3. Retrieved September 25, 2019, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article89702151 

[4] To the Editor of the Express. (1878, July 27). The Bacchus Marsh Express (Vic. : 1866 - 1945), p. 3. Retrieved September 25, 2019, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article89702152 

[6] Heritage Council of Victoria (n.d.)  Bacchus March Express Office and Printing Works. Retrieved April 2, 2023, from https://vhd.heritagecouncil.vic.gov.au/places/44