Hark! the bells of distant cattle waft across the range, through the golden-tufted wattle music low and strange; like the marriage of peal fairies comes the tinkling sound, or like chimes of sweet St Mary’s on far English ground. How my courser champs the snaffle, and with nostrils spread, snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle fern leaves with his tread; cool and pleasant on his haunches blows the evening breeze, through the overhanging branches of the wattle trees; Onward! to the Southern Ocean glides the breath of Spring. Onward! with a dreamy motion, I, too, glide and sing Forward! Forward! Still we wander tinted hills that lie in the red horizon yonder, is the goal so nigh? Whisper, spring wind, softly singing, whisper in my ear; respite and nepenthe bringing, can the goal be near? Laden with the dew of vespers, from the fragrant sky, In my ear the wind that whispers seems to make reply ‘Question not, but live and labour ’til yon goal be won, helping every feeble neighbour, seeking help from none; life is mostly froth and bubble, two things stand like stone, kindness in another’s trouble, courage in your own.
Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833-1870)