Great England! not thy sea-girt shore alone,
That stretches round the Queenly Sovereign’s throne,
But all the widening sway, and boundless grace,
Of those vast countries which a world embrace,
Where dwell the sons of Britain. Ill betide
Who speaks against their country strong and wide!
Throughout the world one patriotic zeal
Binds the vast empire, as with links of steel,
To that sweet peaceful Isle we call our home.
Thither, from mountain top, or crested foam,
We turn our thoughts (as flowers turn to the sun),
And cherish high what there our fathers won.
If far away we watch the sunlight fade,
Beyond the range (where in past years, dismayed
The tired explorer stood, with weary brow,
And gazed across the mallee high and low),
We thrust the shadows back, and think the while
How men forget their fears to win her smile.
What danger will they face if to her name
Twill add new lustre, or still wider fame!
Or if we stand within the city’s pale
Where once rode armoured knights in coated mail,
Of those we think beneath its sacred dome,
So long since gone, who also called it home!
And proud we feel in this brief passing hour,
That God with bounteous grace has given us power
To call it ours! His strong far-reaching hand
Has kept a faithful watch above this land.
Light has departed! In the western hills
Its place around the homestead darkness fills;
Save in the windows, whence the smiling lamp
Outshines the gloom and cheers the distant camp,
Where with their flocks the drovers spend the night
In restful slumber until morning light.
One stage is finished! stars gleam in the sky
As weary heads on pillowing saddles lie.
Around the men sweet dreams their cobwebs spin,
And soon shut out the day’s unrestful din.
All through the air a new-born stillness grows
As sleep, around, a mystic thraldom throws:
Above, below, her soothing angels spread,
On beast, and bird, o’er things alive and dead,
Their blissful wings, while voices never cease
To chant in silvery tones a song of peace.
THE BUSHMAN’S WOOING.
“Short grows my leave,” the bushman said,
“My love I will avow;
When I come back, the maid I’ll wed,
If she will hear me now.”
So fair this maiden was, and bright,
She’d suitors more than one,
But when the bushman rode in sight,
She met him there alone.
She heard him speak of golden love,
A blessing, deep and true,
Such love was theirs, he fain would prove
If she would let him woo
And claim her there, when work was done.
The maiden glanced adown;
“Not thus,” she said, “must I be won,”
And smoothed her silken gown.
Then angry spake the man aloud;
He saw the hand, so small;
While o’er his face there came a cloud,
These words his lips let fall,
“A stockman may seem rough or rude,
Yet all the while be bold,
’Tis not because the quartz is crude,
It can’t contain the gold.
“A bushman’s life is wild and free,—
That easy is to read,—
Don’t live to learn just what you see,
But take the will for deed.
Now all this time I know you meant,
Not ‘No’ to say, but ‘Yes!’”
Then as he spake, the tall man bent
His head, her hand to press.
The maiden would not seem to see,
But drew her hand aside,
“The man I love must courteous be,
Ere I will be his bride.
You say the life is rough and wild,
You think the man is bold;
I still could wish the stone were filed
That one might see the gold!
“To-morrow morn I’ll hear your tale,
And then, perhaps, I’ll say
A word of comfort if you fail
To win my love to-day.
My heart is not a paltry toy,
Just worn upon the sleeve,
To give away to man or boy,
Who barely asks my leave.”
“At morn,” he said, “I take the sheep
Beyond the Queensland line;
We start before you wake from sleep;
Just place your hand on mine,
And say, ‘God bless you, Jim, to-night,
And bring you safely back;’
I then can face the hottest fight
Or meet the fiercest black.”