And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound.
Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal,
How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll!
E’en should some wayward hour the settler’s mind
Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind,
Yet not a pang that England’s name imparts,
Shall touch a fibre of his children’s hearts;
Bound to that native land by nature’s bond,
Full little shall their wishes rove beyond
Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams,