In the days before to-day, Ere the Stars were made to stay In the places where, since then, they shed their light! They, the Children of the Sky, Full of fun, but coy and shy, To the Moon, their mother, came one happy summer night! Came they seeking right disposal Of a sweet but strange proposal; Which was, that to Earth they should be taken, And upon its sward so green, Meet the creatures they had seen The Sun, with his spears, each morning waken! Thus it was, their eyes alight, Round her knees they clustered tight,— Clamant for the new delight! And the Moon, Dear Mother Moon! Smilingly inclined her head, And in whispers softly said: “We shall go there very soon, very soon!” So, without a shred of doubt, It was thus it came about That Her Majesty, the Moon, In her silver gown and shoon, Held a Revel one high noon In a large and lovely garden with a Lawn! And such a Lawn! It was wide and smooth and ordered, And with shady trees ’twas bordered All around! In the centre, there were beds, Full of plants; all greens and reds, And a lake that mirrored them till dawn! And about the lake so fair There was wavy maiden-hair That from out its rocky edges shyly grew! But, above the mignonette, Where the other blossoms met, There were whisperings of apprehensions new; And the flowers, bathed in light, Seemed to tremble, as with fright, When the straying Autumn breezes gently blew! For the fingers of the wind Caught them playfully behind, And so doing, shook their fragrance on the air! Threw it broadcast on the undulating air! Out beyond the garden fences, Through the paddocks, there commences The unbroken bushland prime; In its sheltering recesses Nature nurtures and caresses All that’s native to this clime! There, man’s ruthless usurpation Stops, and peaceful occupation Is conceded, Unimpeded, To all who make it their abode or habitation! Yet this spot of earth primeval, With its denizens coeval, Does not always peace contain; And the hushed and restful stillness Oft is broken by the shrillness Of some cry of fear or pain! Goshawks grey, or red, or white, And the tense black-shouldered kite, Soar and strike the livelong day! And at night the marbled owl, Swiftest of night’s hunting fowl, Swoops upon its startled prey! Still, not all is black disaster; Death is fleet, but life is faster, And its numbers aye o’ermaster Death’s invading arms! O’er a gum-tree, lightning-blasted,— (Where once honey-bees repasted!) See the Forest Queen her creamy mantle throw; Or upon a bank of rubble Barely clothed with ferny stubble, Watch the purple smilax dainty blossoms blow! Or again, where “bottle brushes,”