And, yet! that murmur, hoarse and deep,
None save the ocean-surges keep?
It is—"the cradles' roar!"
Onward! we pass the grassy hill,
Around the base the waters still
Shimmer in golden foam;
O wanderer of the voiceless wild,
Of this far southern land the child,
How changed thy quiet home!
For, close as bees in countless hive,