In a distant land, long years ago,

A tender mother smiled

O'er the cradle of him who sleeps below;
And she often, I ween, would a kiss bestow
On the lips of her slumbering child.

When his father died, in that trouble great,
She turned to her sturdy boy,-

Ah! little she dreamed of his dismal fate !—
And she prayed that he, in her widowed state,
Might grow up her hope and joy.

Even yet she may think that her boy doth roam;
And her aching heart may burn

With hope that again he will seek his home,
As she wistfully gazes across the foam

For him who will ne'er return.

For low and deep doth the shepherd sleep,

By the Queensland waters lying;

He hath laid him down in a nameless grave,
Where the curlews shriek and the gum-trees wave,
And the southern winds are sighing.

THE HON. WILLIAM FORSTER.

[New South Wales is rich in public men who have displayed literary and poetic talents. Parkes, Forster, Lang, Dalley, Martin, and others have all shown themselves clever writers, as well as successful members of Parliament. Mr. William Forster, some time Premier of New South Wales, was a brilliant example. He was born in Madras in 1818, but arrived in Australia in his eleventh year. His public career was very remarkable, but

he always held a high place as a journalist, miscellaneous writer, sonneteer, satirist, and poet. His sonnets written in Sydney during the Crimean War are the most widely known of Antipodean sonnets. It was during his residence in England as Agent-General for his colony that Mr. Forster published "The Weir-Wolf: a Tragedy" and other poems. He was author also of "The Brothers" and "Midas," the latter published posthumously. He died a few years ago.]

SONNETS WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.

I.

АH me! the world's a vault that history paves
With buried nations. Egypt's awful bones
Are blanched in deserts. Hark! the dulcet tones
Of Asian winds come whispering over graves!
Greece only melts us as with odorous breath

Of churchyard flowers that make a friend of death.
Fair Italy in hollow accents raves,

Mingling reproach with anguish, as a ghost
Complains 'mid scenes in life she loved the most,
And Poland like a prisoned spirit sighs!

Far off how many a dusky nation lies,
Deep hid in woods, or in oblivion lost.

Oh, Heaven! the end-shall this be ever so?
And whither these have gone must England go?

II.

Sebastopol that on the sable sea

Sitt'st with the blood of many nations bathed,
Now that war's waning tempest leaves thee free,
How proudly frowning from thy craggy steep,
With haggard looks thou dost survey the deep,
Sublime, though shattered-terrible, though scathed!
O more enduring monument than brass,

O marble shape, stern city! thou shalt pass

From memory never-privileged to bear
The horrid brand and character of war
Imprinted on thy forehead, as a scar
Adorns a warrior. Oh! for ever wear
Thy glory so. When noble foes are crowned
By our own hands, we make ourselves renowned.

III.

Why shout ye thus, unthinking multitude?
Why thus, with sulphurous stars and fiery glare,
Disturb the quiet night? Why vex the air
With idle pæans? Look you! peace is good,
And therefore to rejoice in sober mood,
We owe to God, who blesseth us thereby.
But why, I ask you, giddy people!--why
Need Freedom's sons by heartless mirth insult
Their brothers in affliction ?-why exult
When tyrants only chuckle? Still the sky
Looks down on nations trampled in the dust;
Still, Poland yields her myriads to the lust
Of foreign foes; still, Italy, depressed

With hopeless anguish, tears her bleeding breast.

IV.

'Twixt East and West, a giant shape she grew, To both akin, and making both afraid.

Casting a lurid shadow on the new

And ancient world, her greedy eyes betrayed
The tiger's heart, and ominously surveyed
The peoples destined for her future prey;
From Polar steppes and ice-encumbered seas
To where the warm and blue Symplegades
Darken the splendour of a Grecian day,

She stretched her long grasp, conquering by degrees;

And when at length the banded nations rose
In armed resistance, their combined array,
With equal arms, she shrunk not to oppose,
But bravely stood, as still she stands, at bay.

MIDAS.

TIME was when ye bore it bravely; ye were patient, ye were strong;

Cheerful rose your labour-chorus, as a happy harvest

song.

By the toils which made you weary, which your doubtful days depressed,

Was your evening leisure sweetened, sweeter fell your nightly rest.

Happy were ye then returning from the trouble and the

strife,

When the sacred hour of rest and freedom smiled upon your life;

When ye read the precious charter of release from labour

done,

In the files of friendly shadows lengthening from the level

sun,

In the sunset's crimson glory, in the twilight's tender charm,

In the coolness closing like the pressure of a loving arm, In the birds' sweet evensong, the headlong bat's bewildering flight,

In the sober-tinted mountains, blackening with the breath of night,

When the sweltering brightness and exhausting glare of anxious day,

Sinking in the lap of silence, melted gradually away.

And amid the soft sad light and glimmer of the golden

dew

Many a common shape transfigured to diviner beauty grew, And transmuted by your fond desires the discord and the

noise

Toned down softly to melodious murmuring of domestic joys,

And diviner beauty still was woven with the witching time, And diversities of discords closed in harmony sublime; As the sense of gentle welcomes beaming from beloved

eyes

Shot like prophecies of Heaven across the silence of the skies,

And the whisper of home voices, like enchanted music heard

In Elysian dreams of poets, in the faithful memory stirred; And each saw, or thought he saw, the sparkle of his hearth

afar,

Out of the predominant darkness creep like a familiar

star.

Thus upon your quiet lives shed joy and love their peaceful beams,

Haunted by no dismal shadows, heated by no frantic dreams.

Happy were ye, for whatever blessings by the gods were sent

Sprang like seeds from fertile soils and fruited in your full content.

And the bolts of evil, by the genius of your days con

trolled,

O'er your heads like harmless thunder in unmeaning menace rolled.

Happy, for though worn and weary, yet by conscious pride sustained,

By no patron's leave encumbered, by no tyranny restrained;