Page:Old Melbourne Memories.djvu/256

 Son of a tribe accursed, of those Whose greed has broken our repose Of the long ages dead, Think ye, for nought our ancient race Leaves olden haunts, the sacred place Of toils for ever fled?

List while I tell of days to come, When men shall wish the hammers dumb That ring so ceaseless now; That every arm were palsy-tied, Nor ever wet on grey hillside Was the gold-seeker's brow.

I see the old world's human tide Set southward on the ocean wide. I see a wood of masts, While crime or want, disease or death, With each sigh of the north-wind's breath, He on this fair shore casts.

I see the murderer's barrel gleam, I hear the victim's hopeless scream Ring through these crimeless wastes; While each base son of elder lands Each witless dastard, in vast bands To the gold-city hastes.

Disease shall claim her ready toll, Flushed vice and brutal crime the dole Of life shall ne'er deny; Danger and death shall stalk your streets, While staggering idiocy greets The horror-stricken eye!