While, heavy, rough, and darkly bright,
In every shape, rolled to the light
Man's hope, and pride, and guilt.
All ranks, all ages! Every land
Had sent its conscripts forth, to stand
In the gold-seekers' rank:
The stalwart bushman's sinewy limb,
The pale-faced son of trade—e'en him
Who knew the fetters' clank.
* * * * *