Delightful land, in wildness ev'n benign, The glorious past is ours, the future thine! As in a cradled Hercules, we trace The lines of empire in thine infant face. What nations in thy wide horizon's span Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man! What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam. Where now the panther laps a lonely stream. And all but brute or reptile life is dumb! Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come, Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, And creeds by charter'd priesthood's unaccurst; Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd flags, Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags; Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares, Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs, For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire. And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire; Our very speech, methinks, in after time. Shall catch th' Ionian blandness of thy clime; And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes, } The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. } Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine, Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine; Unborn the hands--but born they are to be-- Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee Proud temple domes, with galleries winding high, } So vast in space, so just in symmetry, } They widen to the contemplating eye, } With colonnaded aisles in lone array, And windows that enrich the flood of day O'er tesselated pavements, pictures fair, And niched statues breathing golden air, Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy swell, Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell; But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, And organs blow their tempests of sweet sound. Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal, How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll Ev'n should some wayward hour the settler's mind Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind, Yet not a pang that England's name imparts, Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts; Bound to that native world by nature's bond, Full little shall their wishes rove beyond Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams. Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams. How many a name, to us uncouthly wild, Shall thrill that region's patriotic child, And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's chords, As aught that's named in song to us affords! Dear shall that river's margin be to him, Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb. Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers, Or twin'd his tame young kangaroo with flowers. But mere magnetic yet to memory Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, The bower of love, where first his bosom burn'd, And smiling passion saw its smile return'd.