Then, then, the wild men, flying from the beach, First heard the clear, bold sounds of English speech;And then first fell across a Southern plain The broad, strong shadows of a Saxon train.
Near yonder wall of stately cliff, that braves The arrogance of congregated waves, The daring son of grey old Yorkshire stood And dreamed in a majestic solitude, What time a gentle April shed its showers, Aflame with sunset, on the Bay of Flowers.
Note:Botany BayThe noble seaman who withheld the hand, And spared the Hector of his native land -The single savage, yelling on the beach The dark, strange curses of barbaric speech.
Exalted sailor! whose benignant phrase Shines full of beauty in these latter days;Who met the naked tribes of fiery skies With great, divine compassion in his eyes;Who died, like Him of hoary Nazareth, That death august - the radiant martyr's death;Who in the last hour showed the Christian face Whose crumbling beauty shamed the alien race.
In peace he sleeps where deep eternal calms Lie round the land of heavy-fruited palms.
Lo! in that dell, behind a singing bar, Where deep, pure pools of glittering waters are, Beyond a mossy, yellow, gleaming glade, The last of Forby Sutherland was laid -The blue-eyed Saxon from the hills of snow Who fell asleep a hundred years ago.
In flowerful shades, where gold and green are rife, Still rests the shell of his forgotten life.
Far, far away, beneath some northern sky The fathers of his humble household lie;But by his lonely grave are sapphire streams, And gracious woodlands, where the fire-fly gleams;And ever comes across a silver lea The hymn sublime of the eternal sea.
On that bold hill, against a broad blue stream, Stood Arthur Phillip in a day of dream:
What time the mists of morning westward rolled, And heaven flowered on a bay of gold!
Here, in the hour that shines and sounds afar, Flamed first old England's banner like a star;Here, in a time august with prayer and praise, Was born the nation of these splendid days;And here this land's majestic yesterday Of immemorial silence died away.
Where are the woods that, ninety summers back, Stood hoar with ages by the water-track?
Where are the valleys of the flashing wing, The dim green margins and the glimmering spring?
Where now the warrior of the forest race, His glaring war-paint and his fearless face?
The banks of April and the groves of bird, The glades of silence and the pools unstirred, The gleaming savage and the whistling spear, Passed with the passing of a wild old year!
A single torrent singing by the wave, A shadowy relic in a mountain cave, A ghost of fire in immemorial hills, The whittled tree by folded wayside rills, The call of bird that hides in hollows far, Where feet of thunder, wings of winter are -Of all that Past, these wrecks of wind and rain, These touching memories - these alone remain!
What sun is this that beams and broadens west?
What wonder this, in deathless glory dressed?
What strange, sweet harp of highest god took flame And gave this Troy its life, its light, its name?
What awful lyre of marvellous power and range Upraised this Ilion - wrought this dazzling change?
No shining singer of Hellenic dreams Set yonder splendour by the morning streams!
No god who glimmers in a doubtful sphere Shed glory there - created beauty here!
This is the city that our fathers framed -These are the crescents by the elders named!
The human hands of strong, heroic men Broke down the mountain, filled the gaping glen, Ran streets through swamp, built banks against the foam, And bent the arch and raised the lordly dome!
Here are the towers that the founders made!
Here are the temples where these Romans prayed!
Here stand the courts in which their leaders met!
Here are their homes, and here their altars yet!
Here sleep the grand old men whose lives sublime Of thought and action shine and sound through time!
