Our Jack

Twelve years ago our Jack was lost. All night,     Twelve years ago, the Spirit of the Storm     Sobbed round our camp. A wind of northern hills     That hold a cold companionship with clouds     Came down, and wrestled like a giant with     The iron-featured woods; and fall and ford,     The night our Jack was lost, sent forth a cry     Of baffled waters, where the Murray sucked     The rain-replenished torrents at his source,     And gathered strength, and started for the sea.     We took our Jack from Melbourne just two weeks     Before this day twelve years ago. He left     A home where Love upon the threshold paused,     And wept across the shoulder of the lad,     And blest us when we said wed take good care     To keep the idol of the house from harm.     We were a band of three. We started thence     To look for watered lands and pastures new,     With faces set towards the down beyond     Where cool Monaros topmost mountain breaks     The wings of many a seaward-going storm,     And shapes them into wreaths of subtle fire.     We were, I say, a band of three in all,     With brother Tom for leader. Bright-eyed Jack,     Who thought himself as big a man as Tom,     Was self-elected second in command,     And I was cook and groom. A week slipt by,     Brimful of life of health, and happiness;     For though our progress northward had been slow,     Because the country on the track was rough,     No one amongst us let his spirits flag;     Moreover, being young, and at the stage     When all things novel wear a fine romance,     We found in ridge and glen, and wood and rock     And waterfall, and everything that dwells     Outside with nature, pleasure of that kind     Which only lives for those whose hearts are tired     Of noisy cities, and are fain to feel     The peace and power of the mighty hills.     The second week we crossed the upper fork     Where Murray meets a river from the east;     And there one evening dark with coming storm,     We camped a furlong from the bank. Our Jack,     The little man that used to sing and shout     And start the merry echoes of the cliffs,     And gravely help me to put up the tent,     And try a thousand tricks and offices,     That made me scold and laugh by turns the pet     Of sisters, and the youngest hope of one     Who grew years older in a single night     Our Jack, I say, strayed off into the dusk,     Lured by the noises of a waterfall;     And though we hunted, shouting right and left,     The whole night long, through wind and rain, and searched     For five days afterwards, we never saw     The lad again.     I turned to Tom and said,     That wild fifth evening, Which of us has heart     Enough to put the saddle on our swiftest horse,     And post away to Melbourne, there to meet     And tell his mother we have lost her son?     Or which of us can bear to stand and see     The white affliction of a faded face,     Made old by you and me? O, Tom, my boy,     Her heart will break! Tom moaned, but did not speak     A word. He saddled horse, and galloped off.     O, Jack! Jack! Jack! When bright-haired Benjamin     Was sent to Egypt with his fathers sons,     Those rough half-brothers took more care of him     Than we of you! But shall we never see     Your happy face, my brave lad, any more?     Nor hear you whistling in the fields at eve?     Nor catch you up to mischief with your knife     Amongst the apple trees? Nor find you out     A truant playing on the road to school?     Nor meet you, boy, in any other guise     You used to take? Is this worn cap I hold     The only thing youve left us of yourself?     Are we to sit from night to night deceived     Through rainy seasons by presentiments     That make us start at shadows on the pane,     And fancy that we hear you in the dark,     And wonder that your step has grown so slow,     And listen for your hand upon the door?