by MARGARET THOMAS (1843-1929)
Dead in the bush by his own rash hand,
Life from its shattered temple riven,
Staining with blood the sinless land,
Dead in the face of the outraged Heaven.
O for an hour of the genius ready
Which told how the Stockman’s race was run!
O for an hour of the sinews steady
With which the steeplechase cup was won!
Hush! where the wattles wave, at last
He rests in his own adopted land,
Poet, crowned, thro’ the centuries vast,
Altho’ he died by his rash right hand.
Margaret Thomas Contemporaries
Charles Edward Carryl