PORT ARTHUR.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume VII, 23 October 1850, Page 4

PORT ARTHUR.

The Isle dcs Moris, or Dead Men's Island, of Port Arthur, is a small fairy islet, situated about midway betwixt Point Puer and the settlement, and nearly in the centre of the superb and noble bay. It is a picturesquely solemn spot — soothing in its melancholy, — placid in its solitude, — its umbrageous and tranquil confines impressing a holy resignation, and elevating the contemplative soul from Earth to Heaven. Within its sea-girt shores, almost its first occupant, lies Dennis Collins, the sailor who threw a stone at William the Fourth on one of the English race courses. In this Mausoleum of nature's creation are deposited the remains of Savary, the once dashing Bristol Sugar Baker — the first British forger who (in 1825) erer chested, the gallows of its prey. Here, likewise, rest the ashes of May, the burker of the Italian boy. Here, too, are reared many monuments of free persons who have died during service at Port Arthur, or perished in its vicinity— sailors — soldiers — civilians. The following Funeral Hymn is from the accomplished pen of an unfortunate, now no more, — one who had unhappily experienced, and who could feel, the anguish he so exquisitely and so toucbingly depicts : — Isle of the dead ! well might Thy rerdant bosom be The last retreat of honour fair, The death-home of the Free ! But, mouldering there, the slave of crime, And wretch of blighted name, Sink in the dread repose of guilt, To rest in graves of shame. Isle of the exil'd dead ! To distant regions borne, From one dear land their bleeding hearts A word of fire had torn : Justice look'd forth with withering frown, And shook the avenging brand ; Whilst law rais'd up his arm of might, And spurn'd them from the strand ! Isle of the homeless dead ! Within thy rock-bound breast, Full many a heart that throbb'd for home,. Now finds untroubled rest ; For home, alas ! they throbb'd in vain ; A mother's fond caress, A father's care, a sister's smile, Had ceas'd those hearts to bless. Isle of the fetter'd dead ! Oft pity, weeping, stood, To hear the clash of penal chains, To see their tears of blood : But now, within the silent grave, Their earthly bondage o'er, The clanking chain, the writhing lash, Are heard and felt no more ! Isle of the unwept dead ! • When, 'midst the perfum'd shade Of trees that wave in beauty there, The last sad rites are paid ; No bursts of hallow'd grief are heard, No sighs of untold woe ; No eyes look dimly through their tears On him that sleeps below. Isle of the unremember'd dead, Nought of whose name remains, Save one dark page of guilt that tells They died amidst their chains : No stone, with sculptured record, marksThe spot where they repose ; And friendship, turn'd to scorn, forgets Their memory in their woes. Isle of the unhonor'd dead ! When death's dread summons call,' No cries bespeak a nation's grief, No pageant decks their fall ; No echoing shouts of trumpet fame Rise pealing o'er their grave i' Their requiem is the breaker's dash/ Their dirge, the sounding wave. Isle of the uxuolac'd dead ! Oh where, when o'er their frame,' The icy thrill of death's cold touch And mortal anguish came ;— Oh where was then affection's hand To close the Aiding eye ?—? — The soft, sweet words of love, to soothe That hour of agony ? Isle of the deathless dead ! The dead in thee that rest, Though spurn'd till life itself wardeati^ May, even in death, be bless'd ; An angel's wing, a seraph's plume. Their new-born life may bear To realms where woe forget* to weep, To chainless freedom there !