POETRY.
THE GORSE-LANDS.
EARTH many a goodly treasure holds Within her dark primeval folds, But free and boundless let me boast The goldfields of our English coast.
Here men from pent-up paces fled Find great clouds driving overhead, With rolling sands and dancing seas, And rude salt kisses in the breeze.
Nought reck they of the Western gale Or rattling musketry of bail; Undaunted, while the tempests blow, Their beacon fires the braver glow.
Oh, well is it with them to brave The battlefield of wind and wave, And from the elemental strife Draw quickening breath of pulsing life.
The cliffs in barren splendour dressed, By labour's fruitful hand unblessed, May search the vext ingenious mind A reason for the waste to find.
But go and join them when they raise Their golden matins' hymn of praise, Or shed upon the evening air Their incense at the hour of prayer.
W. GILCHRIST WILSON.
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