Frank Samuel Williamson
Frank Samuel Williamson Poems
There's a tumult in the distance, and a warsong in the air,
Where the foemen in their galleys, for another fight prepare,
For they whisper in the country, and they noise it in the town,
...
Dear flag! Old flag! O, the blue and white,
Floating in the years long gone,
How our pulses beat,
...
Long I've watched the eagle soaring, and the sun his colours pouring,
Till they fill the vale below me, as though with purple wine;
...
His comrades bore him to the grave,
In column moving slow,
With pomp their faithful subjects gave
To monarchs long ago.
...
Where the dreaming Tiber wanders by the haunted Appian Way,
Lo! the nightingale is uttering a sorrow-burdened lay
...
I seemed a waste of weary land,
Lone, grey, forsaken by the sea,
The keen sun smote my naked sand,
The sultry wind made sport of me.
...
Why should the mist rise from the stream.
A lyric on its bars!
And steal from every wave the gleam,
Begot by lover stars.
...
Dew upon the robin as he lilts there, on the thorn,
Jewel on a scarlet breast a fleeting moment worn,
And suddenly by fairy hands into blue heaven drawn.
...
I
She comes as comes the summer night,
Violet, perfumed, clad with stars,
To heal the eyes hurt by the light
Flung by Day's brandish'd scimitars.
...
The opal-sandalled Morn and Spring
Go singing hand in hand,
Their sister voices sweetly ring
Across a perfumed land;
...
Music makes for beauty moan,
For the lovely Spring o'erthrown.
For the Capeweed glory set,
And the mouldered violet.
...
The golden fruitage drooping nigh
Still rustles quickly down,
Though years steal lustre from the eye,
And Fate begins to frown.
...
Where is Marie? Where is Rose?
Ah! the robber years!
Suddenly love's blossom goes,
Fate's a wind that sears.
...
Bloom upon the robin's breast, on the leaflets high,
Bloom upon the maiden's cheek, in my heart a sigh;
These will come and these will pass, loveliness must die
...
Seldom long delight is man's;
Oft he goes a-sighing,
Watching impish Cupid's vans,
In the distance flying.
...
O take again the withered flower,
That on thy breast hath lain,
Restore it to the snowy bower,
That it may bloom again.
...
If prostrate at thy feet I lie,
Reprove thine eyes not me,
They drew me to a starry sky,
To touch divinity.
...
Hear the wind and the sigh of the wave,
As it slides from the breast of the shore;
If my youth could arise from the grave,
Would it rest on my heart as of yore?
...
Wind in the wattle tree
Wooing the gold,
Shaking the dew on me,
Troubadour bold.
...
Frank Samuel Williamson Biography
Frank Samuel Williamson (19 January 1865 – 6 February 1936) was an Australian poet. Williamson was born in Melbourne and educated at Scotch College, Melbourne. He was a secondary school teacher in Melbourne and Sydney, but occasional bouts of intemperance made it difficult for him to keep his positions. He had the reputation of being an excellent master, especially in English. In later years he was attached to the education department of Victoria and taught in a large number of small country schools. As a young man Williamson had written verse of small merit, but in middle life for a short period he appears to have been inspired by the scenery of his native country to do better work which he polished with great care. In 1912 his one volume of poems, Purple and Gold, appeared; this first edition had several misprints, but these were corrected in a second and enlarged edition published in 1940 with a portrait. Some of the poems in this volume have the true touch and have been deservedly included in several anthologies of Australian verse. He retired from the education department at 65 and had been granted a Commonwealth literary pension, he had some good friends, and he spent the rest of his life in Melbourne. Beyond a few newspaper articles and an occasional set of verses Williamson appears to have done no other writing. He died at the Melbourne hospital on 6 February 1936 and was unmarried.)
The Best Poem Of Frank Samuel Williamson
Before The Boat Race
There's a tumult in the distance, and a warsong in the air,
Where the foemen in their galleys, for another fight prepare,
For they whisper in the country, and they noise it in the town,
That the Wesley colours from the mast will soon be taken down.
Chorus.
Then, it's forward, boys, to battle—hear the bugle's thrilling tone,
With the Royal Purple, borne ahead, march onward, to your own;
With the Lion proudly passing, as the ensign flutters free;
Let the Lion keep the river, as the Lion keeps the sea.
They have raised the Light-blue pennon, and the Flag of the Maroon
See the Dark-Blue Banner flaunting, in the warm October noon,
But who careth for the menace, for it only spurs the bold,
And there are no boys that waver, wearing Purple and the Gold,
O! I hear the voices calling, from the years so far away,
Of the Blue and White clad oarsmen, vanquished in unequal fray,
“Bitter was defeat we tasted, seldom laurel crowned the brow,
Yet we failed that you might conquer, 'tis for you to triumph now.”
See the royal Spring advances, with the colours loved so well,
Golden bloom of wattle bringing, and the wild flower's purple bell,
Cloud-born shadows slowly drifting, o'er the gold-barred, sapphire main,
And the golden shore, that hugs the foam, and renders it again.
Here to me this day are wafted, melodies I loved before,
Wind, and wave, and reed bird singing, and the rhythmic beat of oar.
And a whisper from the college, calling softly to her boys,
“He is worthy, who unselfish, all his strength for me employs.”
Pull, boys, pull, and swing together down the Yarra's calling wave,
While your comrades by the boathouse, shout their welcome to the brave;
Self-forgotten, school revering, honouring the gallant foe,
Let the eight oar take the river—for the fame of Wesley row.
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