On 16th June 1891, Alexandrine married Clarendon James Seager, a widower and British Army Officer. In 1908, by which time they had six children, the family moved to live in Adelaide. There, Alexandrine started up a business called The Scholastic Agency that found governesses and servants for outlying farms and cattle stations.
The three Seager boys joined the Australian Imperial Force
in 1914 and following a visit to one of them, Alexandrine began a campaign to
persuade the women of Australia to support the war and the Cheer-Up Society
came into being. Women volunteers
visited military camps and hospitals, arranging concerts, lunches and special
farewell ceremonies for the troops.
They also organised parcels to send to the troops.
Alexandrine also started a campaign to have the Violet adopted as the flower of remembrance in Australia and the very first Violet Day was held on 2nd July 1915.
Alexandrine also started a campaign to have the Violet adopted as the flower of remembrance in Australia and the very first Violet Day was held on 2nd July 1915.
From 1915 onwards, the Cheer-up Society organised refreshments for soldiers
in a marquee behind the railway station in Adelaide. Later a hut was opened to replace the
temporary arrangement in nearby Elder Park - The Cheer-Up Hut.
Alexandrine’s youngest son George lost his life at
Gallipoli but she continued to write patriotic poems and to support the war
effort. She started the South
Australian Returned Soldiers Association.
During the Depression of the
1930s, the Cheer-Up Hut provided meals for the poor.
Alexandrine and her husband retired to live on Kangaroo
Island where their sons lived. She
continued to write poetry. Alexandrine
died on 12th March 1950 and was buried in the cemetery at Kingscote.
Sources: Michael
Sharkey, Editor of The Australian Poetry Journal
and
Here is Alexandra Seager’s poem about Violets, kindly sent
to me by Michael Starkey:
‘Violet Verses’
(To the dear memory of George Rothwell Seager, whose
good-bye was “If I stop a bit of German lead, be a sport!”)
To-day we wear the clinging violet
In memory
of the brave,
While ever thoughts of fond but proud regret,
Come
surging wave on wave.
Some sleep beside the sobbing Dardanelles,
And some
in gallant France,
‘Mid gardens fair, where medieval bells
Wake
echoes of romance.
‘Twas fitting that the young and brave should die
To build a
nation’s name—
That strong young hands should mould her destiny
In an
undying fame.
In morning’s glory or the moon of life [sic] [‘noon’ in VV]
They fell,
our fighting men;
In burning valour–the white heat of strife—
They
passed beyond our ken.
“Whom the gods love,” so the ancients said, “die young”
How could
it other be?
Would love drag glorious youth through weary years
To age’s
misery?
What would we choose, if choose we could, for those
So
infinitely dear?
The glowing beauty of the blooming rose,
Or dry
dead leaves and drear?
The commonplace of life—dull, sordid care,
Or humdrum
safe content,
Inconsequent small things that jar and wear
And hard
words kindly meant?
Ah! theirs was Life—life worthy of a man— [‘Theirs’ in VV]
Whose exit
was a thrill;
No weary acquiescence in a plan
That long,
dull years must fill.
In contemplation of what might have been,
Our aching
hearts are filled
With sweet, sad thoughts; and for a little time
The
yearning ache is stilled.
Then suddenly it wakes, as unaware
There
flits across the track
A little, laughing child, whose sunny hair
Brings
crowding mem’ries back.
A snatch of song, the perfume of a flower,
And all
the world grows dim.
The barriers we built and felt a power
Melt in
one thought of Him.
Yet some in all this storm, and stress, and strain,
When
nations reel and rock,
In shameful safety ply their lust for gain,
Unmov’d
whate’er the shock—
While on the altar of the Empire’s might,
For Love
and Honour’s sake,
Proud, passionate young life there claims the right
The
sacrifice to make.
And we, the mothers, sisters, sweethearts, wives
Of these,
our dear young dead,
Leave with them there the sunshine of our lives,
Lost in a mist of red.
For them no tolling bell, no fun’ral pall—
(Theirs
was no common death); [‘Their’s’
in VV)
But flowers whose spring-like fragrance touches all
With love
in every breath.
“Far better to have loved and lost,” they say,
“Than
never loved at all,”
For always at some time gold turns to gray,
And
evening shadows fall.
We’ll strew with thoughts of love and fairest flowers
The paths
our heroes trod;
We’ll bless the precious years that made them ours—
And leave
the rest to God.
Alexandra Seager, August
25th 1916
