At The J.C.

None ever knew his name,     Honoured, or one of shame,     Highborn or lowly;     Only upon that tree     Two letters, J and C,     Carved by him, mark where he     Lay dying slowly.     Why came he to the West?     Had then the parent nest     Grown so distasteful?     What cause had he to shun     Life, ere twas well begun?     Was he that youngest son,     Of substance wasteful?     Were Fate and he at War?     Was it a pennance, or     Renunciation?     Is it a glad release?     Has he at length found peace,     Now Death hath bid him cease     Peregrination?     Hands white, without a blot,     Told us that he was not     One of the vulgar.     What can those cyphers be?     Two only, J and C.     Carved in his agony     Deep in the mulga.     Was there no womans face     Whose sunny smile might chase     Clouds from above him?     No bosom white as snow?     No lips to whisper low,     Why doth he seek to go?     Do I not love him.     Haunted by flashing charms,     White bosoms, rounded arms,     Lips of fair ladies,     Striving to break some link,     Was t that which made him sink,     Dragged by the curse of drink     Deeper than Hades?     Now, the wind across the grave,     Tuning a sultry stave,     Drearily whistles,     Stirring those branches where     Two silent cyphers stare,     Two letters of a prayer,     Gods Sons initials.