What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam,
Where now the panther laps a lonely stream,
And all but brute or reptile life is dumb!
Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come,
Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst,
And creeds by charter'd priesthoods unaccurst:
Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd flags,
Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags;
Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares,
Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs,—
For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire,
And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire:-
Our very speech, methinks in after-time,
Shall catch the 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.
Untrack'd 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
Proud temple-domes, with galleries winding high,
So vast in space, so just in symmetry,
They widen to the contemplating eye,
With colonnaded aisles in long array,
And windows that enrich the flood of day
O'er tesselated pavements, pictures fair,
And niched statues breathing golden air.
Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy swell,
Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell;
But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound.
Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal,
How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll!
Even 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,
Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams.
How many a name, to us uncouthly wild,
Shall thrill that region's patriotic child,
And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's chords,
As aught that's named in song to us affords!
Dear shall that river's margin be to him,
Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb,
Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers,
Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers.
But more magnetic yet to memory
Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh,
The bower of love, where first his bosom burn'd,
And smiling passion saw its smile return'd.
Go forth and prosper then, emprising band:
May He, who in the hollow of his hand
The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind's sweep,
Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep!
I HAD a heart that doated once in passion's boundless pain,
And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break
But now that Fancy's fire is quench'd, and ne'er can burn anew,
I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu! adieu!
I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall,
And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all;
But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching sway
Is now to me a star that's fallen-a dream that's pass'd away.
Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll,
How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul!
The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit its shore,
Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o'er.
Why say they Angels feel the flame ?—Oh, spirits
Can love like ours, that doats on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?
Ah, no! the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell,
That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell.
ON THE VIEW FROM ST LEONARD'S.
HAIL to thy face and odours, glorious Sea!
"Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not,
Great beauteous Being! in whose breath and smile
My heart beats calmer, and my very mind
Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer
Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world!
Though like the world thou fluctuat❜st, thy din
To me is peace, thy restlessness repose.
Even gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes,
With all the darling field-flowers in their prime,
And gardens haunted by the nightingale's
Long trills and gushing ecstacies of song,
For these wild headlands, and the sea-mew's clang
With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea,
I long not to o'erlook earth's fairest glades
And green savannahs-Earth has not a plain
So boundless or so beautiful as thine;
The eagle's vision cannot take it in:
The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space, Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird:
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