Chapter LXXXII. Victoria's 'Southern Cross'. Tune--The 'Standard Bearer' I. WHEN Ballaarat unfurled the 'Southern Cross,' Of joy a shout ascended to the heavens; The bearer was Toronto's Captain Ross; And frightened into fits red-taped ravens. Chorus. For brave Lalor-- Was found 'all there,' With dauntless dare: His men inspiring: To wolf or bear, Defiance bidding, He made them swear-- Be faithful to the Standard, for victory or death. (Bis.) II. Blood-hounds were soon let loose, with grog imbued, And murder stained that Sunday! Sunday morning; The Southern Cross in digger's gore imbrued, Was torn away, and left the diggers mourning! Chorus. Victoria men, to scare, stifle, or tame, Ye quarter-deck monsters are too impotent; The Southern Cross will float again the same, UNITED Britons, ye are OMNIPOTENT. Chorus. Thus I had spanned the strings of my harp, but the strain broke them asunder in the gaol. Chapter LXXXIII. Initium Sapientie Est Timor Domini. There are circumstances in life, so inexplicable for the understanding; so intricate for the counsel; so overwhelming for the judgment; so tempting for the soul; so clashing with common sense; so bewildering for the mind; so crushing for the heart; that even the honest man cannot help at moments to believe in FATE. Hence the 'sic sinuerunt Fata,' will dash the fatalist ahead, and embolden him to knock down friend or foe, so as to carry out his conceit. If successful, he is a Caesar; if unsuccessful, ignominy and a violent grave are the reward of his worry. If this be true, as far as it goes, whilst Through living hosts and changing scenes we rove, The mart, the court, the sea, the battle-plain, As passions sway, or accident may move; it holds not true in a gaol. There you must meet yourself, and you find that you are not your God. Hence these new strings in my harp. TO THE POINT. I. Gay is the early bloom of life's first dawn, But darker colours tinge maturer years; Our days as they advance grow more forlorn, Hope's brightest dreams dissolve away in tears Which were the best, to be or not to have been? The question may be asked, no answer can be seen. II. On earth we live, within our thoughts--the slaves, Of our conceptions in each varied mood, Gay or melancholy;--it is the waves Of our imaginings, become the food The spirit preys upon; and laughs or raves With madness or with pleasure, as it would If drunk with liquids. WE EXIST AND DWELL AS THE MIND MAY DISPOSE, IN HEAVEN OR IN HELL. THEME. Death which we dread so much, is but a name. SONNET.