CHARLES HARPUR.
As most of Kendall's ardent lovers and admirers were also much attached to the memory of the poet, Charles Harpur, and have sometimes been much disappointed, if not irritated, by the fact of his poems being so little prized after his death that there was no effort made to collect them into volume form, a few verses of Kendall's, to the memory of the genius of his poet-friend, as well as to the warm-heartedness that characterised him as a man, may, perhaps, be more appositely introduced here than later on; for Charles Harpur (I have been informed, very many years ago, by those who spoke of him from personal acquaintance), though sensitive (as all poets are), was not a shy, nervous, retiring man like Kendall, but, on the contrary, very genial in his manner and equally at home with social life and interests, as he was a passionate lover of Nature. All this Kendall portrays in his poem:
CHARLES HARPUR.
"Where Harpur lies the rainy streams,
And wet hill-heads, and hollows weeping,
Are swift with wind, and white with gleams,
And hoarse with sounds of storms unsleeping.
Fit grave it is for one whose song
Was tuned by tones he caught from torrents,
And filled with mountain-breaths, and strong,
Wild notes of falling forest currents.
So let him sleep! the rugged hymns
And broken lights of woods above him.
And let me sing how sorry dims
The eyes of those that used to love him.
As April in the wilted weld
Turns faded eyes on splendours waning,
What time the latter leaves are old,
And ruin strikes the strays remaining.
