Author: Victor James Daley

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    It may have been a fragment of that higher
    Truth dreams, at times, disclose;
    It may have been to Fond Illusion nigher,
    But thus the story goes:

    A fierce sun glared upon a gaunt land, stricken
    With barrenness and thirst,
    Where Natures pulse with joy of Spring would quicken
    No more; a land accurst.

    Gray salt-bush grimmer made the desolation,
    Like mocking immortelles
    Strewn on the graveyard of a perished nation
    Whose name no record tells.

    No faintest sign of distant water glimmered
    The aching eye to bless;
    The far horizon like a swords edge shimmered,
    Keen, gleaming, pitiless.

    And all the long day through the hot air quivered
    Beneath a burning sky,
    In dazzling dance of heat that flashed and shivered:
    It seemed as if hard by

    The borders of this region, evil-favoured,
    Life ended, Death began:
    But no; upon the plain a shadow wavered,
    The shadow of a man.

    What man was this by Fate or Folly driven
    To cross the dreadful plain?
    A pilgrim poor? or Ishmael unforgiven?
    The man was Andy Blane,

    A stark old sinner, and a stout, as ever
    Blue swag has carried through
    That grim, wild land men name the Never-Never,
    Beyond the far Barcoo.

    His strength was failing now, but his unfailing
    Strong spirit still upbore
    And drove him on with courage yet unquailing,
    In spite of weakness sore.

    When, lo! beside a clump of salt-bush lying,
    All suddenly he found
    A stranger, who before his eyes seemed dying
    Of thirst, without a sound.

    Straightway beside that stranger on the sandy
    Salt plain, a death-bed sad,
    Down kneeling, Drink this water, mate! said Andy,
    It was the last he had.

    Behold a miracle! for when that Other
    Had drunk, he rose and cried,
    Let us pass on! As brother might with brother
    So went they, side by side;

    Until the fierce sun, like an eyeball bloody
    Eclipsed in death, was seen
    No more, and in the spacious West, still ruddy,
    A star shone out serene.

    As one, then, whom some memory beguiling
    May gladden, yea, and grieve,
    The stranger, pointing up, said, sadly smiling,
    The Star of Christmas Eve!

    Andy replied not. Unto him the sky was
    All reeling stars; his breath
    Came thick and fast; and life an empty lie was;
    True one thing only, Death.

    .     .     .     .     .

    Beneath the moonlight, with the weird, wan glitter
    Of salt-bush all around,
    He lay; but by his side in that dark, bitter,
    Last hour, a friend he found.

    Thank God! he said. Hes acted more than square, mate,
    By me in this, and Im
    A Rip.. . . . He must have known I was, well, there, mate,
    A White Man all the time.

    To-morrows Christmas day: God knows where Ill be
    By then, I dont; but you
    Away from this Deaths hole should many a mile be,
    At Blakes, on the Barcoo.

    You take this cheque there, they will cash it, sonny. . . .
    It meant my Christmas spree. . . .
    And do just what you like best with the money,
    In memory of me.

    The stranger, smiling, with a little leaven
    Of irony, said, Yea,
    But there it shall not be. With me in Heaven
    Youll spend your Christmas Day.

    Then that gray heathen, that old back-block stager,
    Half-jestingly replied,
    And laughed, and laughed again, Mate, its a wager!
    And, grimly laughing, died.

    .     .     .     .     .

    St. Peter stood at the Celestial Portal,
    Gazing down gulfs of air,
    When Andy Blane, no longer now a mortal,
    Appeared before him there.

    What seekst thou here? the saint in tone ironic
    Said. Surely the wrong gate
    This is for thee. Andy replied, laconic,
    I want to find my mate.

    The gates flew wide. The glory unbeholden
    Of mortal eyes was there.
    He gazed, this trembling sinner, at the golden
    Thrones, terrible and fair,

    And shuddered. Then down through the living splendour
    Came One unto the gate
    Who said, with outspread hands, in accents tender:
    Andy! I am your mate!

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Type of Poem: Narrative Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: The poem under analysis is a narrative work, presented as a tale of adventure and moral challenge in a harsh, unforgiving landscape. Its themes include struggle, sacrifice, friendship, and redemption, all framed within a dramatic narrative that is both intriguing and emotionally engaging.

The poem is characterized by a tone that combines stark realism with an almost mystical sense of fate and divine intervention. The harsh, desolate landscape is described in vivid detail, creating a bleak and foreboding backdrop that heightens the drama of the narrative. The use of powerful and evocative imagery, such as the "fierce sun", the "ghostly graveyard", and the "mocking immortelles", enhances the sense of desolation and hardship, while also serving to underscore the magnitude of the moral challenge faced by the protagonist.

The structure of the poem, with its regular rhythm and rhyme scheme, contributes to the narrative flow of the work and helps to maintain a consistent pace. The use of dialect and colloquial language lends authenticity to the characters and enhances the sense of realism.

The poem's standout literary device is its use of dramatic irony, most notably in the unexpected twist at the end of the narrative. The protagonist's ultimate redemption, achieved through self-sacrifice and the intervention of a divine figure, is both surprising and deeply moving, serving to reinforce the central theme of the poem.

Overall, this is a well-crafted and engaging work, rich in visual and emotional detail, that effectively explores complex themes of struggle, sacrifice, and redemption.