Country Town, The: A Reverie - Part 8
43
Genius of Local Life, on whom the first
The links of feudal charity depend;
Whose generous soil our early freedom nursed,
And mutual faith of master, servant, friend!
Once 'twas the Briton's pride, the patriot's end,
To see rich harvests whiten at his door,
Fair profits, made at home, at home to spend,
And feed the English realm from English store,
No parasite or slave of any foreign shore.
44
Time was ! But lo! a loftier age succeeds,
Refined with art, in luxury grown old;
The world itself scarce sates our pampered needs;
Gain all our tillage, all our harvest Gold!
Therefore no more the rural year is told
By Calendar and Saint: more rare the swains,
That tend the rusted plough, the dwindling fold:
Deep in their bosoms smoulder sullen pains:
Their native fields they leave: the Feudal Order wanes.
45
To various climes their Fortune bids them roam;
Yet is not Love nor old Remembrance dead;
And oft some pensive spirit turns to Home;
Whether by Burma's shrines in arms he tread;
Or keep, in Athabasca's pine-built shed,
White Yule; or, with his flock, on upland brown,
Find 'neath the Southern Cross a wandering bed;
Then comes some vision of his far-off town;
And in his dreams he hears the voices of the Down.
46
Once more, the long unbroken lonely line,
With rain-beat corn-rick dark against the sky,
His prospect bounds; he breathes the Channel brine;
And, wind-like, hears the plover's wail float by.
Hark! did some watch-dog send a far reply
From homestead hid remote in yonder combe?
He starts from slumber. 'Twas the dingo's cry:
The yellow gorse is gone; and, in its room,
The gum-tree towers above; the giant nettles bloom.
47
Transformed, not dead, from generations gone
By Memory brought, we know not how nor whence,
The Soul of Feudal Liberty lives on,
The Nation's shield, the Empire's " cheap defence".
V ICTORIA'S vassals lo! — a league immense —
Who of their Mother, England, hold in fee,
Bound by one Crown, one Tongue, one Patriot Sense;
Thrice happy! Happier yet, if time shall see
One Federated Realm, the Empire of the Free!
48
Warmed by their fire, old Town, thy kindred blood
Shall through thy shrunken veins more swiftly play,
And rouse again thy youth's green lustihood
In Sydney's art, in Melbourne's growing sway.
Thine is the sunset, theirs the coming day;
Thou only canst remember, they forecast;
Yet in their ears thy worn memorials say —
The living cradle of their buried past —
That Death, howe'er he halt, to all must come at last.
49
As when, up-welling from his fountain deeps,
The Infant River leaves his native snows,
And down the rocks in sun-bright freedom leaps,
While from a thousand streams his volume grows.
Now distant seem the mountains where he rose;
Now slow he lingers on the pleasant lea;
Now through the busy town majestic flows;
Then, sudden, feels the tide by wharf and quay,
And hears far off the murmur of the mighty Sea.
Genius of Local Life, on whom the first
The links of feudal charity depend;
Whose generous soil our early freedom nursed,
And mutual faith of master, servant, friend!
Once 'twas the Briton's pride, the patriot's end,
To see rich harvests whiten at his door,
Fair profits, made at home, at home to spend,
And feed the English realm from English store,
No parasite or slave of any foreign shore.
44
Time was ! But lo! a loftier age succeeds,
Refined with art, in luxury grown old;
The world itself scarce sates our pampered needs;
Gain all our tillage, all our harvest Gold!
Therefore no more the rural year is told
By Calendar and Saint: more rare the swains,
That tend the rusted plough, the dwindling fold:
Deep in their bosoms smoulder sullen pains:
Their native fields they leave: the Feudal Order wanes.
45
To various climes their Fortune bids them roam;
Yet is not Love nor old Remembrance dead;
And oft some pensive spirit turns to Home;
Whether by Burma's shrines in arms he tread;
Or keep, in Athabasca's pine-built shed,
White Yule; or, with his flock, on upland brown,
Find 'neath the Southern Cross a wandering bed;
Then comes some vision of his far-off town;
And in his dreams he hears the voices of the Down.
46
Once more, the long unbroken lonely line,
With rain-beat corn-rick dark against the sky,
His prospect bounds; he breathes the Channel brine;
And, wind-like, hears the plover's wail float by.
Hark! did some watch-dog send a far reply
From homestead hid remote in yonder combe?
He starts from slumber. 'Twas the dingo's cry:
The yellow gorse is gone; and, in its room,
The gum-tree towers above; the giant nettles bloom.
47
Transformed, not dead, from generations gone
By Memory brought, we know not how nor whence,
The Soul of Feudal Liberty lives on,
The Nation's shield, the Empire's " cheap defence".
V ICTORIA'S vassals lo! — a league immense —
Who of their Mother, England, hold in fee,
Bound by one Crown, one Tongue, one Patriot Sense;
Thrice happy! Happier yet, if time shall see
One Federated Realm, the Empire of the Free!
48
Warmed by their fire, old Town, thy kindred blood
Shall through thy shrunken veins more swiftly play,
And rouse again thy youth's green lustihood
In Sydney's art, in Melbourne's growing sway.
Thine is the sunset, theirs the coming day;
Thou only canst remember, they forecast;
Yet in their ears thy worn memorials say —
The living cradle of their buried past —
That Death, howe'er he halt, to all must come at last.
49
As when, up-welling from his fountain deeps,
The Infant River leaves his native snows,
And down the rocks in sun-bright freedom leaps,
While from a thousand streams his volume grows.
Now distant seem the mountains where he rose;
Now slow he lingers on the pleasant lea;
Now through the busy town majestic flows;
Then, sudden, feels the tide by wharf and quay,
And hears far off the murmur of the mighty Sea.
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