Gallant is Spring along thy laughing hills,
With wattles loveliest scent and gleam of gold,
When the good rain hath quickened all thy mould,
And the hot musk thine air with incense fills.
Sweet is the chime of all thy tinkling rills,
And fair thy Summers glory to behold,
And soft is life for thee, the sunny-souled,
Far from the world and all its olden ills.
Yet tis not calm that builds the hero breed,
High hearts are tempered neath a stormy star,
Through want and danger doth the soul increase,
Stern rings the clarion voice of Angel Need
To bid thee vanquish self, and gaze afar
And save thy soul alive from Harlot Peace.
