Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/60

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24
A Colonist in his Garden.
For is my England there? Ah, no.Gone is my England, long ago,  Leaving me tender joys,Sweet, fragrant, happy-breathing namesOf wrinkled men and grey-haired dames,  To me still girls and boys.
With these in youth let memory strayIn pleasance green, where stern to-day  Works Fancy no mischance.Dear pleasance—let no light invadeRevealing ravage Time hath made  Amid thy dim romance!
Here am I rooted. Firm and fastWe men take root who face the blast,  When, to the desert come,We stand where none before have stoodAnd braving tempest, drought and flood,  Fight Nature for a home.
Now, when the fight is o’er, what man,What wrestler, who in manhood’s span  Hath won so stern a fall,Who, matched against the desert’s power,Hath made the wilderness to flower,  Can turn, forsaking all?
Yet that my heart to England cleavesThis garden tells with blooms and leaves  In old familiar throng,And smells, sweet English every one,And English turf to tread upon,  And English blackbird’s song.
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