At The J.C.
By Barcroft Boake
None ever knew his name,
Honoured, or one of shame,
Highborn or lowly;
Only upon that tree
Two letters, J and C,
Carved by him, mark where he
Lay dying slowly.
Why came he to the West?
Had then the parent nest
Grown so distasteful?
What cause had he to shun
Life, ere twas well begun?
Was he that youngest son,
Of substance wasteful?
Were Fate and he at War?
Was it a pennance, or
Renunciation?
Is it a glad release?
Has he at length found peace,
Now Death hath bid him cease
Peregrination?
Hands white, without a blot,
Told us that he was not
One of the vulgar.
What can those cyphers be?
Two only, J and C.
Carved in his agony
Deep in the mulga.
Was there no womans face
Whose sunny smile might chase
Clouds from above him?
No bosom white as snow?
No lips to whisper low,
Why doth he seek to go?
Do I not love him.
Haunted by flashing charms,
White bosoms, rounded arms,
Lips of fair ladies,
Striving to break some link,
Was t that which made him sink,
Dragged by the curse of drink
Deeper than Hades?
Now, the wind across the grave,
Tuning a sultry stave,
Drearily whistles,
Stirring those branches where
Two silent cyphers stare,
Two letters of a prayer,
Gods Sons initials.