If I might choose the flowers that I love best,
I’d choose the violet and the pansy, pressed
Against my wounded heart to ease its pain,
And stay the bitter tears which fall in vain.
If I might choose the songs which I would sing,
I’d choose the songs which breathe of gentle spring;
With thoughts of love and life, and flowers that bloom,
And scatter fragrance after winter’s gloom.
If I might choose the books o’er which I’d pore,
I’d choose the treasures rare of ancient lore
Where sages told of kingdoms come and gone,
And glorious heroes who had laurels won.
If I might choose the friends whom I could love,
I’d choose the friends who brave and true would prove
In days of sadness and in days of mirth,
Tried like fine tempered steel, strong in its worth.
If I might choose the time when I could live
In happiest mood, I’d choose the early eve
Of life, when feet could rest, and thoughts could flow
Like gentle wavelets, rippling to and fro.
If I might choose the grave where I would lie,
I’d choose the forest depth, where symphony
Of winds would like Æolian harp-strings blend,
And sweetest solace to my spirit send.
QUEENSLAND PIONEERS.
The pens of Austral’s sages shall in the misty future dim
Write a grand record—Australia’s national hymn
Of progress. And on the scroll of ages shall the rhyme
Inscribed and treasured be upon the shelf of Time—
Of pioneers’ illustrious names, who fought so brave
Against barbaric nature, and who found a grave
In the lone bush, and on the burning sand,
Fighting the King of Terrors, with no loving hand
To pillow soft their dying head, or wipe Death’s dew
From their damp forehead ere the tortured spirit grew
Fainter and weaker still, till all was o’er;
And naught but their great names for evermore
Remain. Such heroes hath Australia given to be
The graven basic landmarks of her dynasty,
When mighty cities on her verdant shore shall rise
And teeming millions dwell beneath her skies,
Her starry standard, ever white, unsoiled shall be,
Urging her onward towards her glorious destiny.
IBRAHIM PASHA AT SCUTARI.
The voices of the Heralds, repeated by the echoes
From the mountain-tops to the depths of the
Valleys, are calling all good patriots to arms.
Those heroes so proud and intrepid who will
Never again see their native hearth until covered
With glory, bearing their trophies of victory. They will return or die.