ORIGINAL POETRY. THE HOME AMONG THE WILDS.

New Zealander, Volume 7, Issue 543, 28 June 1851, Page 3

ORIGINAL POETRY. THE HOME AMONG THE WILDS.

St. George

It is but poor, and rude to see, Has neither elegance, nor grace, No odorous flower, no stately tree Add beauty to that rugged place, Yet rosy blooms my boy's round cheek, My heart is gladsome as a child's; No loftier lot my spirit seeks — I love my home among the wilds! Wide all around the waste lands lie, With here a hill, and there a dale, Behind a mountain cuts the sky; The flax plant tall, the tea-tree pale Are all the shrubs that meet the eye, And all the sounds are faint and few The humming of some lazy fly, The cattle bell,—the far halloo Yet when the burning summer noon Floods all the wide and silent plains, A lute is heard whose perfect tune Fills full the air with softest strains. In giant solitudes alone, And lonely wilds, that strain is rung — There only is its presence known, There only Nature finds a tongue. I have sat down mid high born throngs, The haughtiest of the haughty there, And listened to those sparkling songs We hear from lips as light, as fair, But never one to match the air I hear these foreign wilds among, But never one that could compare With Nature's sweet, and mystic song. It is but poor, and rude to see, Has neither elegance nor grace, No odorous flower, no stately tree Add beauty to that rugged place. Yet rosy blooms my boy's round cheek, My heart is gladsome as a child's, No loftier lot my spirit seeks— I love my home among the wilds.