Had sent her conscripts forth to stand

In the gold-seekers' rank;

The bushman, bronzed, with sinewy limb,

The pale-faced son of trade, e'en him

Who knew the fetters' clank.

* * * * *

''Tis night; her jewelled mantle fills

The busy valley, the dun hills,

'Tis a battle-host's repose;

A thousand watch-fires redly gleam,