A Perfect peaceful stillness reigns,
Not e'en a passing playful breeze
The sword-shaped flax blades gently stirs:
The vale and slopes of rising hills
Are thickly clothed with yellow grass,
Whereon the sun, late risen, throws
His rays to linger listlessly.
Naught the expanse of yellow breaks,
Save where a darker spot denotes
Some straggling bush of thorny scrub;
While from a gully down the glen,
The foliage of the dull-leaved trees
Rises to view; and the calm air,
From stillness for a moment waked
By parakeets' harsh chattering,
Swift followed by a tiny thrill
Of bell-like notes, is hushed again.
The tiny orbs of glistening dew,
Still sparkle gem-like 'mid the grass,
While morning mist, their mother moist,
Reluctant loiters on the hill,
Whence presently she'll pass to merge
In the soft depths of the blue heav'ns.
This fertile isle to us is given
Fresh from its Maker's hand; for here
No records of the vanished past
Tell of the times when might was right
And self-denial weakness was,
But all is peaceful, pure, and fair.
Our heritage is hope. We'll rear
A nation worthy of the land;
And when in age we linger late,
Upon the heights above life's vale,
Before we, like the mist, shall merge
In depths of God's eternity,
We'll see, perchance our influence
Left dew-like, working for the good
Of those whose day but dawns below.
