Full many more, ’tween hill and shore,
Are worthy of the poet’s lore.
Though hard I seek, the words are weak,
Of nobler beauties now to speak.
While cities were, with beauty rare,
Contrived by man, with studied care,
The vale, the glen, the lake, the fen,
Were made by Him who maketh men.
The fields of grain, where honest swain
Earns honest bread, wave not in vain.
For West and East, both man and beast
Await to join Zealania’s feast.
And from all lands, by skilful hands,
White sails are bent for Austral strands.
Here, finest wheat, by many a fleet
Is sent, the foreign marts to meet.
And finest fleece—in war or peace—
They shear, that wealth they may increase.