Stuffed with tradition and trammels of yore,
Cramped in their studies, they sneer and scold
At the strange, new pa**ions young hearts would pour
Thro' a sunlit land, and a tale unfold
Of youth's ambition - new-minted gold
Fresh from life's furnace, all aglow
With none of its worth are their hearts cajoled,
If it waken no echo of things they know.
Their minds close cluttered with olden lore,
Their praise for the new is charity doled;
Their memories, clogged with a moss-grown store
Of dead men's wisdom, naught also may hold,
The flight of an eaglet, overhold,
Is an impudent thing, so their judgements go;
And the song of a bush bird leaves them cold,
If it wakes no echo of things they know.
Songs have sprung from this virgin shore,
Tales that are turned from an unworn mould,
These be but follies that grieve them sore
Rhymes the old troubadours have not trolled.
Themes must be borrowed from urn of old;
For originality irks them so,
And the voice of the bush must be controlled,
If it wakes no echo of things they know.
ENVOI
Prints - aye, and reprints, tales retold.
Shadows - for these do their plaudits grow;
But the bard stays dumb, and the book unsold
If it waken no echo of things they know.