Morning in the Bush (A Juvenile Fragment.)

Above the skirts of yellow clouds,     The god-like Sun, arrayed     In blinding splendour, swiftly rose,     And looked athwart the glade;     The sleepy dingo watched him break     The bonds that curbed his flight;     And from his golden tresses shake     The fading gems of Night!     And wild goburras laughed aloud     Their merry morning songs,     As Echo answered in the depths     With a thousand thousand tongues;     The gully-depths where many a vine     Of ancient growth had crept,     To cluster round the hoary pine,     Where scanty mosses wept.     Huge stones, and damp and broken crags,     In wild chaotic heap,     Were lying at the barren base     Of the ferny hillside steep;     Between those fragments hollows lay,     Upfilled with fruitful ground,     Where many a modest floweret grew,     To scent the wind-breaths round;     As fertile patches bloom within     A dried and worldly heart,     When some that look can only see     The cold, the barren part!     The Miser, full with thoughts of gain,     The meanest of his race,     May in his breast some verdure hide,     Though none that verdure trace.     Where time-worn cliffs were jutting out,     With rough and ragged edges,     The snowy mountain-lily slept     Behind the earthy ledges;     Like some sweet Oriental Maid,     Who blindly deems it duty     To wear a veil before her face,     And hide her peerless beauty;     Or like to Innocence that thrives     In midst of sin and sorrows,     Nor from the cheerless scene around     The least infection borrows,     But stayeth out her mortal life     Though in that lifetime lonely     With Virtues lustre round her heart,     And Virtues lustre only.     A patch of sunshine here and there     Lay on a leaf-strewn water-pool,     Whose tribute trickled down the rocks     In gurgling ripples, clear and cool!     As iguanas, from the clefts,     Would steal along with rustling sound,     To where the restless eddies roamed     Amongst the arrowy rushes round.     While, scanning them with angry eyes     From off a fallen myrtle log     That branchless bridged the brushy creek,     There stood and barked, a Shepherds Dog!     And underneath a neighbouring mass     Of wattles intertwining,     His Master lay his back against     The grassy banks reclining.     Beneath the shade of ironbarks,     Stretched oer the valleys sloping bed     Half hidden in a tea-tree scrub,     A flock of dusky sheep were spread;     And fitful bleating faintly came     On every joyous breath of wind,     That up the stony hills would fly,     And leave the hollows far behind!     Wild tones of music from the Creek     Were intermingling with the breeze,     The loud, rich lays of countless birds     Perched on the dark mimosa trees;     Those merry birds, with wings of light     Which rival every golden ray     Out-flashing from the lamps of Night,     Or streaming oer the brow of Day.     Amongst the gnarly apple-trees,     A gorgeous tribe of parrots came;     And screaming, leapt from bough to bough,     Like living jets of crimson flame!     And where the hillside-growing gums     Their web-like foliage upward threw,     Old Nature rang with echoes from     The loud-voiced mountain cockatoo;     And a thousand nameless twittering things,     Between the rustling sapling sprays,     Were flashing through the fragrant leaves,     And dancing like to fabled fays;     Rejoicing in the glorious light     That beauteous Morning had unfurled     To make the heart of Nature glad,     And clothe with smiles a weeping World.