And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire:—
Our very speech, methinks, in after time,
Shall catch th’ Ionian blandness of thy clime;
And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies
Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman’s eyes,
The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise.
Untracked in deserts lies the marble mine,
Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine;
Unborn the hands—but born they are to be—
Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee