Victor James Daley
Biography of Victor James Daley
Victor James William Patrick Daley was an Australian poet.
He was born at the Navan, County Armagh, Ireland, and was educated at the Christian Brothers at Devonport in England. He arrived in Australia in 1878, and became a freelance journalist and writer in both Melbourne and Sydney. Whilst in Melbourne, he met and became a friend of Marcus Clarke; later, in Sydney, he became acquainted with Henry Kendall. He is notable for becoming the first author in Australia who tried to earn a living from writing alone. In Sydney in 1898, he founded the bohemian Dawn and Dusk Club, which had many notable members such as writer Henry Lawson. He died at Sydney of tuberculosis.
He used the pseudonym Creeve Roe, (Irish =Red Branch - the area next to the Navan where Cu Chulainn trained as a Red Branch Knight) as well as his own name. His Poems (1908) and other collections were published posthumously.
A memoir of Daley by Bertram Stevens was published in Wine and Roses.
Daley serves chiefly as an example of the Celtic Twilight in Australian verse. He also serves as a lyrical alternative to his contemporary bush balladists.
Victor James Daley's Works:
At Dawn and Dusk (1898)
Wine and Roses (1911)
Creeve Roe (1947)
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Victor James Daley Poems
On a golden dawn in the dawn sublime Of years ere the stars had ceased to sing, Beautiful out of the sea-deeps cold Aphrodite arose—the Flower of Time—
BY his side, whose days are past, Lay bow and quiver! And his eyes that stare aghast Close, with a shiver.
Day and Night
DAY goeth bold in cloth of gold, A royal bridegroom he; But Night in jewelled purple walks— A Queen of Mystery.
Christmas in Australia
O DAY, the crown and crest of all the year! Thou comest not to us amid the snows, But midmost of the reign of the red rose; Our hearts have not yet lost the ancient cheer
At Dawn and Dusk
At Dawn and Dusk Love-Laurel IN MEMORY OF HENRY KENDALL
The pale discrowned stacks of maize, Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise, Where all is dead and gone.
Bouquet and Bracelet
Bouquet said: “My floral ring The homage of a heart encloses, Whose thoughts to you go worshipping In perfume from my blushing roses.”
ONCE a poet—long ago— Wrote a song as void of art As the songs that children know, And as pure as a child’s heart.
HAVING certain cares to drown, To the sea I took them down: And I threw them in the wave, That engulfed them like a grave.
I HAVE been dreaming all a summer day Of rare and dainty poems I would write; Love-lyrics delicate as lilac-scent, Soft idylls woven of wind, and flower, and stream,
The awful seers of old who wrote, in words Like drops of blood, great thoughts that through the night Of ages burn, as eyes of lions light Deep jungle-dusks; who smote with songs like swords
IT MAY have been a fragment of that higher Truth dreams, at times, disclose; It may have been to Fond Illusion nigher— But thus the story goes:
When trees in Spring Are blossoming My lady wakes From dreams whose light
Day and Night
DAY goeth bold in cloth of gold,
A royal bridegroom he;
But Night in jewelled purple walks—
A Queen of Mystery.
Day filleth up his loving-cup
With vintage golden-clear;
But Night her ebon chalice crowns
With wine as pale as Fear.