POEMS BY CHARLES HARPUR.

XXIII.

NED CONNOR.

A TALE OF THE BUSH.

'Twas Night — and where a wat'ry sound Came moaning up the Flat,

Six rude and bearded Stockmen round Their blazing hut-fire sat,

And laughed, as on some starting hound The cracking fuel spat.

And merrier still the log-fire cracks As night the starker falls :

And not a noisy tongue there lacks

To tell of drunken brawls —

But most, of battle with the Blacks Some bloody tale appals.

Amongst them then Ned Connor spoke, And up his stature drew :

What is there in an open stroke

To boast ? — you only slew

Them who'd have done, each hell-black one, The same or worse to you.

But lost amid the Hills one day, Which then was well-nigh shut, I met a Black upon my way, And thus the matter put

Unto him — See ; this knife's for thee — Come, guide me to my Hut.

His savage eyes grew huge with joy As on the prize they bent ;

And leading, even like a Boy, He capered as he went :

But think you, Men, to give the toy

Ned Connor ever meant ?

An hour had brought us many a mile, And then, as closed the day,

The Savage, pointing with a smile To where my Station lay —

There give to me the knife, said he, And let me go my way.

I never meant to give him such, As I before have said ;

And when he stretched his hand to clutch, A thought came in my head :

I raised my gun, as though in fun ; I fired — and he was DEAD.

The ruffian laughed in ruthless mood

When ended thus his tale!  

But all the rest, though Men of Blood, With horror deemed to quail ;

And saw'that, boastful though he stood,

Ned Connor too was pale.

Now what to hear had made them fear, Had also made them dry :

But strange! the water-pail that late   Brimmed in a corner nigh,

Was empty! — In amazement great, There's not a drop ! they cry.

Their thirst grew bitter — and they said,

Come this will never do !

It is your turn for water, Ned, Then why not go? He drew  

His breath full hard, tend from his head There dripped a sudden dew.

But shaming to be taxed with fear, He seized the pail, and said —

What care I? though the night be drear, Who ever saw the Dead?  

And if I fail to fill this pail,

The Devil shall instead!  

He sallied forth : a sudden blast Went sobbing by the door,

Through which they heard his footsteps fast

Recede — and when no more

They heard them, round the fire aghast They gathered as before.

And long, impatient all and wild, They wondered at his stay ;

Till one outspake — A weanling child Could make not more delay!  

If longer slack in coming back He'll bring with him the day.

But as they thus were wondering-hark!   They heard a frantic shriek!  

Then nearing footsteps through the dark Came waywardly and weak —

And while the dogs did howl and bark, They stared, but feared to speak.

Against the door that to had swung One rushed then, and 'twas split!

And 'mongst them there Ned Connor sprung

And fell into a fit!  

And through the night in ghastly plight He struggled hard in it.

And when his sense returned, again The Sun was rising bright :

But shuddering as in deadly pain, He turned him from the light,

And pointing, said — To bed, to bed ! For Death is in my sight !

They bore him to his bed straightway, Those horror-stricken men,

And questioned him, as there he lay,

Of what had met his ken :

At length aloud he 'gan to pray, And thus bespake them then.

I went (you heard), with impious boast, For water to the Brook;

But when the threshold I had crost All strength my heart forsook!  

Each forward step seemed death, but most

I feared behind to look.

Long murky clouds kept hurrying fast Across the starless sky ;

Strange sounds came drowning in the blast That piped by fits so high :

A winding gleam — and lo, the Stream Was wildly moaning by.

I stood at gaze — my spirits shrank — A dull damp sense of awe

'Numbed me, as crawling up the bank Crude Shapes methought I saw !— I must not back, I said, alack!  

But down at once and draw.

Now stooping o'er the water's edge Mine eyes thereon I threw,

And lo, distinctly through the sedge

Within the Stream I view —

Not mine own shadow from the ledge !

But Him — the Black I slew.

With backward bound I started round, And up the bank did flee ;

But ah, as swiftly in my track Bare footsteps seemed to be;

Step — step for mine, close at my back I heard, but naught could see!   It was a horrid thing to hear Behind me still the sound ;

I could not bear to have it there, And desperate, faced me round ;

When through the dark a sudden spark Shot upward from the ground.

Transfixed as with a stunning stroke, I could not turn again,

But saw, whence came the spark, a smoke Arise — I saw it plain!

And from it spread an odour dead That bit me to the brain.

At first I saw it bloating out In size not o'er a span ;

Then as it slowly wreathed about, To heighten it began,

Until it took in bulk and look The stature of a Man.

No stir was near, I might but hear The beating of my blood ;

And there, within my reach almost, The grisly Phantom stood!  

I stared till fear in Fear was lost, So awful was my mood.

I spake — I know not what — and lo,

The diabolic Birth

'Gan writhing wildly to and fro, As if in horrid mirth,

And then, against me rushing so,

It dashed me to the earth.  

Long stunned — my brain began to swim

With consciousness anew —

But when, with eyeballs strained and dim, I looked again, I knew

A Form stood o'er me there — 'twas Him, The Savage that I slew!  

I shrieked, and bounding to my feet, I fled ; but as before

Bare footsteps tracked me, beat for heat, Until I gained the door :—

What then befel I cannot tell — I know of nothing more.

He ceased — and turning in his bed, Aloud for mercy cried ;

And for three days and nights, 'tis said, He uttered nought beside;

When wild with woe, he shrieked, and so The haunted Murderer died.

The fearful Men around him then, Each one of them did say :

Now well we know 'twas MURDER so Even a black to slay !

And where he said he saw the Dead, They buried him next day.

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