Happy years have we together
Spent, my Isodore and I;
And no more I pensive ponder,
Lonely when the night winds sigh.
CLEVELAND, Q.
She hath no strands of coral, rimmed with gold,
Or mermaids, in green dells of ancient story;
But rippling, laughing waves her feet enfold,
And land and seascape gleam with glittering glory.
Clad in her verdant raiment, in the crystal dawning
While golden wings of beauty o’er her rest,
Its passion, dimming the pale star of morning,
The Sun god’s kiss upon her face is pressed.
And ’neath the ti-tree’s shade, and spreading fig trees,
The meek kine, lowing, wander at their will;
While, borne upon the fragrant evening breeze,
The mopoke’s notes are heard from “copse” and hill.
And lo! When Luna’s orb in splendour lies
O’er Stradbrooke’s purple hill, and gem-set isles,
She gazes o’er the Point ’neath opal skies
To Cotton’s mountain wreathed in vernal smiles.
The red land waits for man to till the sod
With plough-share and with courage, heart and will—
To sow the seed where lies the barren clod,
Turning the grist to gold, with Nature’s mill.