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.