"My country, prey to tyrant bands—
Her glories gone—her brave ones dead—
Her daughter slain by traitor's hands—
And ask'st thou why my joy is sped?
"'Fore Heaven, I prize this faded form,
E'en in its ghastly features, more
Than when thou won it young and warm,
And it alone to worship swore.
"For now I make thee, tyrant, tremble
O'er all the ruin thou hast made;
In vain thou seekest to dissemble—
Oh! curse thy bloody heart and blade.
"And cursed may her ashes be
Who basely sold my maiden hand
To him who crushed our liberty,
And drowned in blood my fatherland."
WINTER—AN ELEGY.
"Most musical, most melancholy."
The lovely rose, the garden's graceful queen;
The shining berries of the mountain ash,
And all the glories of the sylvan scene,
Have gone, I guess, teetotally to smash!
The shuddering hills, enwrapt in lurid fire,
With flaming tongues the lambent lightning licks;
Whilst all the songsters of the rural choir
To New South Wales have cut their precious sticks.
