And the sea-lion tracks his pathless way;

Away,

-away, where southern icebergs roll,
Upon the troubled billows round the pole;
Where the bold mariner, whose course has run
Beyond the journey of the circling sun,

Condemned, for lingering months, to sleep and wake
By nights that cloud not, days that never break,
To watch by stars that fade not from the eye,
And moons that have no rival in the sky,
Lies down to slumber, and awakes to weep
For brighter scenes that rose upon his sleep,
And many a glance from faces far away,

That turned the darkness into more than day, -
Till his fond bosom glows with fancy's fires,
And hope embodies all the heart desires,
And every vision of his distant home
Warms, like a prophecy of days to come!

Isles of the Orient! gardens of the East!
Thou giant secret of the liquid waste,
Long ages in untrodden paths concealed,
Or, but in glimpses faint and few revealed,
Like some chimera of the ocean-caves,
Some dark and sphinx-like riddle of the waves,
Till he, the northern Edipus, unfurled

lis venturous sail, and solved it to the world!
Surpassing beauty sits upon thy brow,
But darkness veils thy all of time, save now;
Enshrouded in the shadows of the past,
And secret in thy birth as is the blast!

If, when the waters and the land were weighed,

Thy vast foundations in the deep were laid;
Or, mid the tempests of a thousand years,

Where through the depths her shell the mermaid steers,
Mysterious workmen wrought unseen at thee,
And reared thee, like a Babel, in the sea;
If Afric's dusky children sought the soil
Which yields her fruits without the tiller's toil;
Or, southward wandering on his dubious way,
Came to thy blooming shores the swarth Malay;
'T is darkness all! long years have o'er thee rolled
Their flight unnoted, and their tale untold!
But beautiful thou art, as fancy deems
The visioned regions of her sweetest dreams;
Fair as the Moslem, in his fervor, paints
The promised valleys of his prophet's saints;
Bright with the brightness which the poet's eye
Flings o'er the long-lost bowers of Araby!
The soul of beauty haunts thy sunny glades,
The soul of music whispers through thy shades,
And Nature, gazing on her loveliest plan,
Sees all supremely excellent but man!

Now on my soul the rising vision warms,
But mingled in a thousand lovely forms.
Methinks I see Australian landscapes still,
But softer beauty sits on every hill;

I see bright meadows decked in livelier green,
The yellow cornfield, and the blossomed bean;
A hundred flocks o'er smiling pastures roam,
And hark! the music of the harvest-home.
Methinks I hear the hammer's busy sound,

And cheerful hum of human voices round,-
The laughter, and the song that lightens toil,
Sung in the language of my native isle;
In mighty bays unnumbered navies ride,
Or come and go upon the distant tide,
In land-locked harbors rest their giant forms,
Or boldly launch upon the "Bay of Storms";
While the swarth native crowns the glorious plan
In all the towering dignity of man.

The vision leads me on by many a stream;
And spreading cities crowd upon my dream,
Where turrets darkly frown, and lofty spires
Point to the stars, and sparkle in their fires.
Here Sydney gazes from the mountain-side,
Narcissus-like, upon the glassy tide!

There Hobart stretches, where the Derwent sees
Her flaxen ringlets tremble in the breeze!
O'er rising towns Notasian commerce reigns,
And temples crowd Tasmania's lovely plains,
And browsing goats, without a keeper, stray,
Where the bushranger tracked the covert way.

The prospect varies in an endless range,
Villas and lawns go by in ceaseless change.
Glenfinlas! thou hast hundred rival vales,
Where quiet hamlets deck the sloping dales;
And, wafted on the gale from many a dell,
Methinks I hear the village Sabbath bell!
And now the anthem swells; on every hand
A cloud of incense gathers o'er the land;

Faith upward mounts, upon devotion's wings,
And, like the lark, at heaven's high portal sings;
From myriad tongues the song of praise is poured,
And o'er them floats "the Spirit of the Lord."
Thomas Kibble Hervey.

Q

DOWN IN AUSTRALIA.

UAFF a cup, and send a cheer up for the Old Land!
We have heard the Reapers shout,

For the Harvest going out,

With the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land; And our message shall be hurled

Up the ringing sides o' the world,

There are true hearts beating for you in the Gold Land.

We are with you in your battles, brave and bold Land! For the old ancestral tree

Striketh root beneath the sca,

And it beareth fruit of Freedom in the Gold Land! We shall come too, if you call,

We shall fight on if you fall,

Cromwell's land must never be a bought and sold land.

O, the standard of the Lord wave o'er the Old Land! For, the waiting world holds breath

While she treads the dew of Death,

With the sleeve of Peace stript up from her bare, bold hand:

And her ruddy Rose will bloom

On the bosom and the tomb

Of her many Heroes fallen for the Old Land.

O, a terror to the Tyrant is the Old Land!
He remembers how she stood

With her raiment rolled in blood,

When the tide of battle burst upon the bold Land, And he looks with darkened face,

For he knows the hero-race

Sweep the harp of Freedom - draw her Sword with bold hand.

Let thy glorious voice be heard, thou great and bold Land!

Speak the one victorious word,

And fair Freedom's wandered Bird

Shall wing back with leaf of promise from the Old Land! And the peoples shall come out

From their slavery, with a shout

For the new world greeting in the Future's Gold Land!

When the smoke of Battle rises from the Old Land, You shall see the Tyrant down,

You shall see the ransomed crown;

On the brow of prisoned peoples, freed with bold hand! She shall thrash her foes like corn;

They shall eat the bread of scorn;

And will sing her song of Triumph in the Gold Land.

Quaff a cup, and send a cheer up from the Gold Land! We have heard the Reapers shout,