AUSTRALIAN LITERATURE. 819 



Can we imagine him, away back in tliese early days of 

 the colony, spending his leisure after a day of labour in 

 musing beside some mossy stream, while sonnets fashioned 

 themselves after the manner of Shaks])ere or of Words- 

 worth ? And yet not often did he write of the sights around 

 him. His mind was of an almost morbidly imaginative 

 complexion ; lie lived in worlds of enchantments and trans- 

 migrations ; in (Hm Oiiental luxuriance, and the glamour of 

 fairy realms. His poem the " Tower of the Dream " is as 

 weird as anything Coleridge ever wrote, and almost as 

 musical ; nor is it a mere imitation of any of Coleridge's 

 poems, but rather a finished work such as Coleridge might 

 have written on a topic different from anything he has really 

 handled. His " Witch of Plebron " is also a fine poem, a 

 very fine poem, but what chance of recognition has it when 

 it is understood that it belongs to a class of poetry as 

 essentially imaginative, and as utterly opposed to all that is 

 realistic as are any of Shelley's works. And if the " Witch 

 of Atlas " of Shelley is understood and appreciated by only 

 a very few hundreds in the whole range of the Anglo- 

 Saxon race, is it probable or is it even possible that Harpur's 

 " Witch of Hebron " could find twenty people in all Australia 

 that are capable of ajijireciating it ? 



Not that Harpur's " Witch of Hebron " is in any way an 

 imitation from Shelley's " Witch of Atlas." Their titles are 

 similar, and they are both wildly imaginative pieces ; but 

 there the resemblance ends. Shelley's rhapsody, glorious 

 though it is, leaves only the impression of a wild profusion of 

 poetic imagery. Harpur's ])oem is a legend of the East ; it 

 tells a consecutive story, though its events carry the reader 

 into the most astonishing realms of wonderland. 



Harpur's sonnets are extremely gracefiil. He published a 

 small volume of them in 1840, at a time when, so far as 

 recognition in Sydney was possible, he might as Avell have 

 printed them in Sanskrit. I doubt if he ever had half a 

 dozen readers. And yet many of them would pass without 

 challenge if we met them in the pages of some of our 

 greatest masters. 



She loves me ! From her own bliss-breathing lips 

 The live confession came, like rich perfume 

 From crimson petals bursting into bloom ! 

 And still my heart at the i-emembrance skips 

 Like a young lion ; and my tongue, too, trips 

 As drunk with joy ! While every object peen 

 In life's diurnal round wears in its mien 



