I have called my book The Romance of Exploration; the romance is in the chivalry of the achievement of difficult and dangerous, if not almost impossible, tasks. Should I again be called on to enter the Field of Discovery, although to scenes remote from my former Australian sphere, I should not be the explorer I have represented myself in these pages, if, even remembering the perils of my former adventures, I should shrink from facing new. An explorer is an explorer from love, and it is nature, not art, that makes him so.
The history of Australian exploration, though not yet quite complete, is now so far advanced towards its end, that only minor details now are wanting, to fill the volume up; and though I shall not attempt to rank myself amongst the first or greatest, yet I think I have reason to call myself, the last of the Australian explorers.
As a last remark, I may say the following lines may convey some of my real feelings towards:—
AUSTRALIA.
What though no hist'ries old,
Rest o'er that land of gold;
And though no bard has told
Tales, of her clime:
What though no tow'r display,
Man's work of other days;
And, though her sun's bright rays
In the old time;
Gleam'd on no mighty fanes,
Built by the toiling pains
Of slaves, in galling chains,
In the earth's prime.
Hers is a new bright land;
By God's divine command,
Where each industr'us hand,
Willing to toil;
What though no song records,
Deeds of her martial hordes,
Who made, with conquering swords,
Heroes sublime.
Gathers the fruits of peace,
Gathers the golden fleece,
And the fair earth's increase,
From the rich soil.
Hers is a flow'ry crown;
Science and Hope look down
On each new glitt'ring town,
Whose structures rise;
And to Time's latest age,
Hers shall, the brightest page,
Written by bard or sage,
Be, 'neath the skies.