[Footnote 42: Page 25.--The Canadian reader can profitably and easily compare his own poets with those of Australia by reading Slade's "Australian Poets, 1788-1883, being a selection of poems upon all subjects written in Australia and New Zealand during the first century of the British colonization, with brief notes on their authors, etc." (London and Sydney, 1889.) It will be seen, however, that nearly all the so-called "Australian" poets are English born, while with one or two exceptions, those of Canada best known to fame are the product of Canadian life and thought. Henry Clarence Kendall, "the poet of New South Wales," was born at Ulladulla, on the coast of that colony, in 1842. He is the one Australian poet of reputation, except his forerunner, Charles Harpur, who was actually born under the Southern Cross. Kendall's verses on "Coogee," a striking natural feature of Australian scenery, show true poetic instinct and rhythmical ease: "Sing the song of wave-worn Coogee-Coogee in the distance white, With its jags and points disrupted, gaps and fractures fringed with light; Haunt of gledes and restless plovers of the melancholy wail, Ever lending deeper pathos to the melancholy gale. There, my brothers, down the fissures, chasms deep and wan and wild, Grows the sea-bloom, one that blushes like a shrinking, fair, blind child, And amongst the oozing forelands many a glad green rockvine runs, Getting ease on earthy ledges sheltered from December suns." But among the many spirited poems written in Australia since its settlement not one can equal the "Sick Stock-rider," by Adam Lindsay Gordon, who came to South Australia in his early manhood, and attempted sheep-farming, with the result of "owning nothing but a love for horsemanship and a head full of Browning and Shelley." This is a quotation from an introduction to his book by Marcus Clarke, himself a novelist and poet. One can see in the mind's eye the scenes described in the following verses, so full of real life and genuine poetry: "'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass, To wander as we've wandered many a mile, And blow the cool tobacco cloud and watch the white wreaths pass, Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while; 'Twas merry 'mid the backwoods, when we spied the station roofs, To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs. Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!