Ii

Dressed is the beautiful city--the spires of it Burn in the firmament stately and still; Forest has vanished--the wood and the lyres of it, Lutes of the sea-wind and harps of the hill. This is the region, and here is the bay by it, Collins, the deathless, beheld in a dream: Flinders and Fawkner, our forefathers grey, by it Paused in the hush of a season supreme. Here, on the waters of majesty near to us, Lingered the leaders by towers of flame: Elders who turn from the lordly old year to us Crowned with the lights of ineffable fame.