Henry Kendall

Henry Kendall was an Australian poet whose short life was characterized by sadness; a very brief period of insanity and later recognition as he was just getting on his feet, only to succumb to the wet conditions and death at only 43 years of age.

He captures the somber mood of the first nations people, who we are only more recently  starting to recognize in a more meaningful way.      

The Last of His Tribe

He crouches, and buries his face on his knees,
and hides in the dark of his hair;
for he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,
or think of the loneliness there -
Of the loss and the loneliness there.

The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
And turn to their coverts for fear;
But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass
Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear -
With the nullah, the sling and the spear.

Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks
on the tops of the rocks with the rain,
And the wind which drives up with the salt of the lakes,
Have made him a hunter again -
A hunter and fisher again.

For his eyes have been full with a smouldering thought;
But he dreams of the hunts of yore,
And of foes that he sought, and of fights that he fought
With those who will battle no more -
Who will go to the battle no more.

It is well that the water which tumbles and fills
Goes moaning and moaning along;
For an echo rolls out from the sides of the hills,
And he starts at a wonderful song -
At the sound of a wonderful song.

And he sees through the rents of the scattering fogs
the corroboree warlike and grim,

and the lubra who sat by the fire on the logs,
to watch, like a mourner, for him -
Like a mother and mourner for him.

Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands,
Like a chief, to the rest of his race,
With the honey-voiced woman who beckons and stands,
And gleams like a dream in his face -
Like a marvellous dream in his face?

ABORIGINAL DEATH SONG.

Feet of the flying and fierce,

Tops of the sharp-headed spear,

Hard by the thickets that pierce,

Lo! They are nimble and near.

What shall we say to these twain?

How shall we eat at their camps?

Seeing who stiffens in rain,

Dead in the dark and the damps.

Women are we and the wives

Strong Arrawatta hath won.

Lo! We are sick, and our lives

Perish like mists in the sun.

Followed and caught by the foes

Stealthy and subtle of stroke,

Now do we mumble our woes?

Broken and bent to the yoke.

Koola, our love and our light,

What have they done unto you?

Man of the star-reaching sight,

Dipped in the fire and the dew?

Black-headed snakes in the grass

Struck at the fleet footed lord!

Still is his voice at the pass,

Soundless his steps at the ford.

Fast from the sides of the glen

Tracks of a hunter decay.

Rings of the councils of men

Look for a leader to-day.

Tea, and the fish-river clear

Never shall blacken below

Spear and the shadow of spear,

Bow and the arrow of bow.

We who axe beaten and worn,

Dashed underfoot by the twain—

Foes with the faces of scorn—

How shall we gladden again?

Seeing the fathers are far,

Elders and friends of the dead

Left on the paths of the war

Matted and mangled and red!