passionate brotherhood, ready to assist one another with purse and pen. Sic vos non vobis.
Of Mr. Geo. Loyau's efforts in poetry and prose the Town and Country Journal, one of the oldest and best papers on this side of the Atlantic, says:—"In this hard, prosaic age, when dress and show are regarded as the chief end of mankind, it is quite refreshing to find a man like the author of "Wild Flowers" and the "Australian Seasons" wooing the muse in the midst of poverty and trial. If Mr. Loyau were not both a bold and fearless writer, he would not dare to publish poem after poem, and story after story, amongst a population who have never shown much partiality for native talent in letters. Some of his "Wild Flowers" are fair to look upon, and exhale the grateful odour of the blossoms of poetry. In all he has written Mr. Loyau is purely Australian. In the city, or away in the far bush, he translates what he sees, hears, and feels unaffectedly, but with great vigour and expression and graceful ease of language."
I am no prophet—a man cannot be one in his own country—but through the vista of time I see the forms of a vast throng that will surely fill this new land and raise it into one of the great nations of the earth. To these shall the pioneers of Australian letters look for that due right and recognition which is lacking in our day. From these, not Loyau alone, but I, together with the few who love their art above all consideration of place and pay, shall undoubtedly obtain the reward due to hard work and patient obscurity.
Oh, birds that sing such thankful psalms,
Rebuking human fretting,
Teach us your secret of content—
Your science of forgetting.
For every life must have its ills—
You, too, have times of sorrow—
Teach us, like you, to lay them by,
And sing again to-morrow.
