To Doctor Lang

Charles Harpur

LITTLE, perhaps, thou valuest verse of mine—
        Little hast read of what my hand has wrought,
Yet I with thy brave memory would entwine
        The muse’s amaranths. For thou well hast fought
        For freedom; well her sacred lessons taught;
Well baffled wrong; and delved with far design
Into those elements where treasures shine
        Excelling those wherewith our hills are fraught.
And when thy glorious grey head shall make
        One spot all-hallowed for the coming days—
Tombed in the golden land for whose sole sake
        With labour thou hast furrowed all thy ways,—
        Well a young nation shall thy worth appraise
Even through the grief which then shall o’er thee break.

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