Charles Harpur

(23 January 1813 – 10 June 1868 / Windsor, New South Wales)

This Southern Land Of Ours - Poem by Charles Harpur

With alien hearts to frame our laws
And cheat us as of old,
In vain our soil is rich, in vain
'Tis seamed with virgin gold:
But the present only yields us nought,
The future only lours
Till we dare to be a people
In this Southern Land of Ours.

What would pygmean statesmen but
Our new-world prospects blast,
By chaining native enterprise
To Europe's pauper past,
With all its misery for the mass,
And fraud-upholden powers;
But we'll yet have men, - like Cromwell,
In this Southern Land of Ours.

And lo, the unploughed future, boys,
May yet be all our own,
If hearts that love their Native Land
Determine this alone:
To sow its years with crops of truth,
And border these with flowers,
Till we have a birth of heroes
In this Southern Land of Ours.


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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 12, 2010



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