In Arcadia

Dreamy-soft thy lay and tender, Exile in Australian wild; Happy thou, with power to render Ditties that might soothe a child.

But, oh, touch not strain that's bolder — Strain that echoed o'er the hills Of your native land, when older Days were free from modern ills!

Play for rude content and pleasure; Waken not the thoughts untold: Let the memory hold the measure Dimly of the songs of old.

Hark, the bell-bird, sudden sounding, Fills the pauses of the strain; And the wayward heart goes bounding, Hearing village bells again!

Still the sheep are resting yonder, All the land is softly fair; It needs but Pan, with sudden wonder, To appear, with pan-pipes there.

Alas! but Pan is dead, and only Exiled shepherds chant the strain; Pipe to pass the day so lonely, Daring not some songs again.