Henry Kendall

(18 April 1839 – 1 August 1882 / Ulladulla, New South Wales)

Henry Kendall Poems

161. Campaspe 4/7/2010
162. By The Sea 4/7/2010
163. By The Cliffs Of The Sea 4/7/2010
164. Bob 4/7/2010
165. Blue Mountain Pioneers 4/7/2010
166. Black Lizzie 4/7/2010
167. Black Kate 4/7/2010
168. Billy Vickers 1/1/2004
169. Bill The Bullock-Driver 4/7/2010
170. Beyond Kerguelen 1/1/2004
171. Bells Beyond The Forest 4/7/2010
172. Bellambi's Maid 4/7/2010
173. Bell Birds 4/7/2010
174. Basil Moss 4/7/2010
175. Australian War Song 4/7/2010
176. Australia Vindex 4/7/2010
177. At Long Bay 4/7/2010
178. At Her Window 4/7/2010
179. At Euroma 4/7/2010
180. At Dusk 4/7/2010
181. Astarte 1/1/2004
182. Araluen 1/4/2003
183. Arakoon 1/1/2004
184. Amongst The Roses 1/1/2004
185. Aileen 1/1/2004
186. After The Hunt 1/1/2004
187. After Many Years 1/4/2003
188. Achan 1/1/2004
189. Aboriginal Death Song 1/1/2004
190. A Spanish Love Song 1/1/2004
191. A Mountain Spring 1/1/2004
192. A Hyde Park Larrikin 1/1/2004
193. A Death In The Bush 4/7/2010
194. A Day Of Dream 4/7/2010
195. A Birthday Trifle 4/7/2010
196. ~araluen~ 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Henry Kendall

The Last Of His Tribe

He crouches, and buries his face on his knees,
And hides in the dark of his hair;
For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,
Or think of the loneliness there -
Of the loss and the loneliness there.

The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
And turn to their coverts for fear;
But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass
Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear -
With the nullah, the sling and the spear.

Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks
On the tops of the rocks with the rain,
And the wind which drives up with the...

Read the full of The Last Of His Tribe

Araluen

Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deep
Mosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep.
Put the blossom close to baby -- kneel with me, my love, and pray;
We must leave the bird we've buried -- say good-bye to her to-day;
In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands,
And the flowers we have fostered will be left to other hands.
Other eyes will watch them growing -- other feet will softly tread
Where two hearts are nearly breaking, where so many

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