The wild scrub cattle held their own,
I lost my mates, my mates fell blown ;
Night came, I slept here all alone:
At sunrise riding on again,

I heard yon creek's refrain.

Can this be where the hovel stood?
Of old I knew the spot right well:
One post is left of all the wood,

Three stones lie where the chimney fell. Rank growth of ferns has well-nigh shut From sight the ruins of the hut.

There stands the tree where once I cut
The M that interlaced the L-
What more is left to tell?

Ay, yonder in the black wood shade,
The wife was busy with her churn;
The sturdy sun-burnt children played
In yonder patch of tangled fern.
The man was loitering to feed
His flock on yonder grassy mead:
And where the wavelet threads the weed
I saw the eldest daughter turn,
The stranger's quest to learn.

Shone, gold-besprinkled by the sun,

Her wanton wealth of back-blown hair,
Soft silver ripples danced and spun
All round her ankles bright and bare.

My speech she barely understood,
And her reply was brief and rude,
Yet God, they say, made all things good
At first, that He made fair,

[NOTE. The manuscript here is rather blurred and indistinct, and probably the author's words are not accurately copied, as the sense is rather vague.]

She bore a pitcher in her hand

Along that shallow, slender streak
Of silver-coated shelving sand,

That splits two channels of the creek;
She plunged it where the current whirls,
Then poised it on her sunny curls;
Waste water decked with sudden pearls
Her glancing arm and glowing cheek-
What more is left to speak?

It matters not how I became

The guest of those who lived here then ;
I now can scarce recall the name

Of this old station; long years, ten
Or twelve it may be, have flown past,
And many things have changed since last
I left the spot, for years fly fast,

And heedless boys grow haggard men
Ere they the change can ken.

The spells of those old summer days
With glory still the passes deck,
The sweet green hills still bloom and blaze
With crimson, gold, and purple fleck.
For these I neither crave nor care,
And yet the flowers perchance are fair

As when I twined them in her hair,

Or strung them chainwise round her neck-
What now is left to reck?

The pure, clear streamlet undefiled

Durgles the flowery upland yet;

It lisps and prattles like a child,
And laughs and makes believe to fret
O'erflowing rushes rank and high;

And on its dimpled breast may
The lizard and the dragon-fly.

lie

[NOTE. The manuscript, which is carelessly written and unrevised, abruptly leaves off here.]

AN EXILE'S FAREWELL.

1.

THE Ocean heaves around us still
With long and measured swell,
The autumn gales our canvas fill,

Our ship rides smooth and well.
The broad Atlantic's bed of foam
Still breaks against our prow;
I shed no tears at quitting home,
Nor will I shed them now.

11.

Against the bulwarks on the poop

I lean and watch the sun

Behind the red horizon stoop
His race is nearly run.

Those waves will never quench his light,
O'er which they seem to close;

To-morrow he will rise as bright
As he this morning rose.

III.

How brightly gleams the orb of day
Across the trackless sea!

How lightly dance the waves that play
Like dolphins in our lee!
The restless waters seem to say

In smothered tones to me,
How many thousand miles away
My native land must be.

IV.

Speak, ocean! Is my home the same,
Now all is new to me?

The tropic sky's resplendent flame,
The vast expanse of sea?
Does all around her, yet unchanged,
The well-known aspect wear?

O can the leagues, that I have ranged,
Have made no difference there?

V.

How vivid Recollection's hand

Recalls the scene once more!
I see the same tall poplars stand
Beside the garden-door;
I see the bird-cage hanging still,
And where my sister set
The flowers in the window-sill-
Can they be living yet?

VI.

Let woman's nature cherish grief,

I rarely heave a sigh,

Before emotion takes relief
In listless apathy,

While from my pipe the vapours curl
Towards the evening sky,

And 'neath my feet the billows whirl
In dull monotony !

VII.

The sky still wears the crimson streak
Of Sol's departing ray;

Some briny drops are on my cheek—
'Tis but the salt sea-spray!
Then let our bark the ocean roam,
Our keel the billows plough,
I shed no tears at quitting home,
Nor will I shed them now.

ARTHUR GREEN.

[Of Windarra, Launceston, Tasmanía. Has published a volume entitled Rose-leaves.]

THE ANGEL-REAPER'S CHOICE.

AN angel-reaper, with a two-edged sword
So keen and bright,

Stood pensive in the garden of the Lord
But yesternight.

The sword was drawn, yet on the angel's face
A radiant smile

Played sweetly, though half veiled by just a trace
Of sadness, while