And as I through each chamber tread
With footsteps light as air,
I feel that sorrow’s years have fled
And left me young and fair.
And then the old clock in the tower,
With solemn voice and deep,
Booms out the ne’er returning hour,
And wakes me from my sleep.
Lo! from all sadness springs a joy
The world may never give,
And in these realms of memory
My soul at night doth live.
THE WATTLE.
A maze of gorgeous golden bloom
The yellow wattle gleams,
A glorious wealth of sweet perfume,
It dwells beside the streams.
And deep in bush and forest glade
On verdurous velvet lawn,
Or avenues of waving shade,
This empress—Austral born.
With leaves of frosted silver chased,
Their myriad tiny heads
By trembling drops of dew enlaced
A glittering radiance sheds.
And Auster’s beauteous witching flower
Hath e’er a jealous hue,
For Helios breathed his passion there,
And flamed it through and through.