Page:Old Melbourne Memories.djvu/255

Less silent scarce than that pale host
These toiled, as if each moment lost
Were the red life-drop spilt;
While, heavy, rough, and darkly bright,
In every shape, rolled to the light
Man's hope, and pride, and guilt.

All ranks, all ages! Every land
Had sent its conscripts forth, to stand
In the gold-seekers' rank:
The stalwart bushman's sinewy limb,
The pale-faced son of trade—e'en him
Who knew the fetters' clank......
'Tis night: her jewelled mantle fills
The busy valley, the dun hills,
'Tis a battle host's repose!
A thousand watch-fires redly gleam,
While ceaseless fusillades would seem
To warn approaching foes.

The night is older. On the sward
Stretched, I behold the heavens broad,
When—a Shape rises dim,
Then, clearer, fuller, I descry,
By the swart brow, the star-bright eye,
The Gnome-king's presence grim!

He stands upon a time-worn block;
His dark form shades the snowy rock
As cypress marble tomb:
Nor fierce yet wild and sad his mien,
His cloud-black tresses wave and stream,
His deep tones break the gloom.