Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods, Where the rude native rests his wearied frame Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm, As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky, Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek The dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plains Unbroken by the plough, undelv'd by hand Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds, And for the music of the bleating flocks, Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note Deepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes, The realm of Nature! for as yet unknown The crimes and comforts of luxurious life, Nature benignly gives to all enough, Denies to all a superfluity, What tho' the garb of infamy I wear, Tho' day by day along the echoing beach I cull the wave-worn shells, yet day by day I earn in honesty my frugal food, And lay me down at night to calm repose. No more condemn'd the mercenary tool Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart With Virtue's stiffled sigh, to fold my arms Round the rank felon, and for daily bread To hug contagion to my poison'd breast; On these wild shores Repentance' saviour hand Shall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its wounds And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven. [Footnote 1: The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting shells for the purpose of making lime.] HUMPHREY and WILLIAM. (Time, Noon.) HUMPHREY: See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun By this time half his daily race has run? The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore And hurries homeward with his fishy store. Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil To eat our dinner and to rest from toil! WILLIAM: Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestows A ready medicine for the sick-man's woes, Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat. Ah Humphrey! now upon old England's shore The weary labourer's morning work is o'er: The woodman now rests from his measur'd stroke Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak, Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food, There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood. To us no cooling streamlet winds its way, No joys domestic crown for us the day, The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear, Toil all the day, and all the night despair. HUMPHREY: Ah William! labouring up the furrowed ground I used to love the village clock's dull sound, Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done, And trudge it homewards when the clock went one. 'Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner! Pshaw! curse this whining--let us fall to dinner. WILLIAM: