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.