Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd flags,
Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags;
Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares,
Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs,
For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire.
And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire;
Our very speech, methinks, in after time.
Shall catch th' Ionian blandness of thy clime;
And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies
Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes, }
The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. }

Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine,
Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine;
Unborn the hands--but born they are to be--
Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee
Proud temple domes, with galleries winding high, }
So vast in space, so just in symmetry, }
They widen to the contemplating eye, }
With colonnaded aisles in lone array,
And windows that enrich the flood of day
O'er tesselated pavements, pictures fair,
And niched statues breathing golden air,
Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy swell,
Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell;
But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round,
And organs blow their tempests of sweet sound.

Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal,
How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll