Henry Kendall

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

Henry Kendall Poems

121. William Bede Dalley 4/7/2010
122. To The Spirit Of Music 4/7/2010
123. To - - 4/7/2010
124. The Maid Of Gerringong 4/7/2010
125. The Melbourne International Exhibition 4/7/2010
126. The Helmsman 4/7/2010
127. The Late W. V. Wild, Esq. 4/7/2010
128. The Bereaved One 4/7/2010
129. The Curlew Song 4/7/2010
130. Sonnets On The Discovery Of Botany Bay By Captain Cook 4/7/2010
131. Safi 4/7/2010
132. On A Street 4/7/2010
133. Mountain Moss 4/7/2010
134. Mountains 4/7/2010
135. Names Upon A Stone: (Inscribed To G. L. Fagan, Esq.) 4/7/2010
136. John Bede Polding 4/7/2010
137. In Memory Of John Fairfax 4/7/2010
138. Hymn Of Praise 4/7/2010
139. Illa Creek 4/7/2010
140. God Help Our Men At Sea 4/7/2010
141. Fainting By The Way 4/7/2010
142. Ella With The Shining Hair 4/7/2010
143. Euroclydon 4/7/2010
144. Clari 4/7/2010
145. Blue Mountain Pioneers 4/7/2010
146. Bob 4/7/2010
147. Charles Harpur 1/1/2004
148. A Birthday Trifle 4/7/2010
149. Astarte 1/1/2004
150. Etheline 1/1/2004
151. The Barcoo 1/1/2004
152. A Hyde Park Larrikin 1/1/2004
153. At Her Window 4/7/2010
154. A Death In The Bush 4/7/2010
155. Dungog 4/7/2010
156. How The Melbourne Cup Was Won 4/7/2010
157. Evening Hymn 4/7/2010
158. In The Valley 4/7/2010
159. Mooni 4/7/2010
160. Lost In The Flood 4/7/2010

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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

Kiama

Towards the hills of Jamberoo
Some few fantastic shadows haste,
Uplit with fires
Like castle spires
Outshining through a mirage waste.
Behold, a mournful glory sits
On feathered ferns and woven brakes,
Where sobbing wild like restless child
The gusty breeze of evening wakes!

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