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.