Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Sarah WelchThe Diggers Grave
H
Hoping that Fortune on his lot would smile,
In search for gold. When one short year had flown,
He wrote the welcome tidings to his own
Betrothéd; told how months of toiling vain
Made ten-fold sweeter to him sudden gain;
With sanguine words, traced with love’s eager hand,
He bade her join him in this bright south land.
Oft as he sat, his long day’s labor o’er,
In his bush hut, he dreamed of home once more;
His thoughts to the old country home in Kent
Returned. ’T was Christmas-day, and they two went
O’er frost and snow; the Christmas anthem rang
Through the old church, which echoed as they sang.
His tale of love to pretty Christabel;
And she, on her part, with ingenuous grace,
Endorsed the tell-tale of her blushing face.
Dream on, true lover! never, never thou
Shalt press the kiss of welcome on her brow.
E’en now a comrade, eager for thy gold,
Above thy fond true heart the knife doth hold—
One stroke, the weapon ’s plunged into his breast;
So sure the aim that, like a child at rest,
The murdered digger lies,—a happy smile
Parts the full manly bearded lips the while.
He held his last home letter, lately scanned
With love-lit eyes; and next his heart they found
A woman’s kerchief which, when they un-wound,
Disclosed a lock of silken auburn hair
And portrait of a girl’s face, fresh and fair,
Dyed with the life-blood of his faithful heart.
To more than one eye, tears unbidden start;
With reverent hands, and rough, unconscious grace,
They laid him in his lonely resting-place.
The bright-hued birds true nature’s requiem gave,
And wattle-bloom bestrews the digger’s grave.