I see a lone stream, rolling down Through valleys green, by ranges brown Of hills that bear no name, The dawn's full blush in crimson flakes Is traced on palest blue, as breaks The morn in Orient flame. I see--whence comes that eager gaze? Why rein the steed, in wild amaze? The water's hue is gold! Golden its wavelets foam and glide, Through tenderest green to ocean-tide The fairy streamlet rolled. "Forward, 'Hope!' forward! truest steed, Of tireless hoof and desert speed, Up the weird water bound, Till, echoing far and sounding deep, I hear old Ocean's hoarse voice sweep O'er this enchanted ground?" The sea!--wild fancy! Many a mile Of changeful Nature's frown and smile Ere stand we on the shore. And, yet! that murmur, hoarse and deep, None save the ocean-surges keep? It is--"the cradles' roar!" Onward! we pass the grassy hill, Around the base the waters still Shimmer in golden foam; O wanderer of the voiceless wild, Of this far southern land the child, How changed thy quiet home! For, close as bees in countless hive, Like emmet hosts that earnest strive, Swarmed, toiled, a vast, strange crowd: Haggard each worker's features seem, Bright, fever-bright, each eye's wild gleam, Nor cry, nor accent loud. But each man dug, or rocked, or bore, As if salvation with the ore Of the mine-monarch lay. Gold strung each arm to giant might, Gold flashed before each aching sight, Gold turned the night to day. Where Eblis reigns o'er boundless gloom, And, in his halls of endless doom Lost souls for ever roam, They wander (says the Eastern tale), Nor ever startles moan or wail Despair's eternal home. Less silent scarce than that pale host These toiled, as if each moment lost Were the red life-drop spilt; While, heavy, rough, and darkly bright, In every shape, rolled to the light Man's hope, and pride, and guilt. All ranks, all ages! Every land Had sent its conscripts forth, to stand In the gold-seekers' rank: The stalwart bushman's sinewy limb, The pale-faced son of trade--e'en him Who knew the fetters' clank. * * * * * 'Tis night: her jewelled mantle fills The busy valley, the dun hills, 'Tis a battle host's repose! A thousand watch-fires redly gleam, While ceaseless fusillades would seem To warn approaching foes. The night is older. On the sward Stretched, I behold the heavens broad, When--a Shape rises dim, Then, clearer, fuller, I descry, By the swart brow, the star-bright eye, The Gnome-king's presence grim!