Arthur Maquarie(1874-1955 / Dubbo, New South Wales)
- by Arthur Maquarie12
MIRROR of the trackless sky, Priestess of its changing mood, Ere thy shores were piled on high Thou didst feel God's Spirit brood; Thou didst hear His word alone;— Be thou still Britannia's throne.
From thy deeps the creeping things Spread through cove and brook and fen, Changing scales for soaring wings And the mould of mortal men; From thy womb the world hath grown! Be thou still Britannia's throne.
Then among the happier ones Filing in millennial train, Thou didst make us favoured sons, Teaching us to rule and reign: Thou didst call us for thine own— Be thou still Britannia's throne.
Mighty Mistress, thou didst school England's heart in all thy ways; May she learn no nicer rule In the ease of after days; For the greatness we have known Be thou still Britannia's throne.
For the passion of our plea, For the memory of our brave, For the fights we fought for thee, For the bones that thou dost lave, For the love that we have shown! Be thou still Britannia's throne.
- by Arthur Maquarie11
The yellow poplar leaves have strown Thy quiet mound, thou slumberest Where winter's winds will be unknown; So deep thy rest, So deep thy rest.
Sleep on, my love, thy dreams are sweet, If thou hast dreams: the flowers I brought I lay aside for passing feet, Thou needest nought, Thou needest, needest nought.
The grapes are gather'd from the hills, The wood is piled, the song bird gone, The breath of early evening chills; My love, my love, sleep on; My love, my love, sleep on
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