Deep midst Tasmania's scrubby bush,
Where waves the " old man" fern and pithy rush
Mount Arthur frowned. His rocky summit seemed to say-
Selected ! approach me not-come not this way;
My soil is poor-'twould be pure folly to settle on it;
There's nought but tangled bush and rugged boulders on it."
But notwithstanding Artie's frowns and blackest looks,
Adventurous miners explored his most retired nooks,
And, searching, found what these few lines shall tell.
They found what's proved to be poor Artie's dying knell,
Where once was only heard the native songster's warbling,
The rustling trees and brooks melodious gurgling
Where fern trees lent their lenghy aid to make
The shade more deep-where shadows seemed to take
A pure and holy hue, and form a depth profound
In Nature's loveliest form, unbroke by human sound.
There now is heard the shovel's grating rattle,
The pick's fierce click, engaged in life's long battle.
For gold was found, and men from all parts rushed
Some to make fortunes-some a living just.
And then came stores, their hungry wants to feed ;
And then the "pubs," formed wants they did not need.
Trees were felled, and scrub was cleared, till
Nought but confusion reigns 'neath Artie's brow.
His steep and rugged sides shed tears of rock
To see the ruin relentless man has wrought,
Nor longer forbids his savage raids
Where Nature reigned alone for ten decades,
But grimly smiles, and wonders to himself
If he,too, will be o'erturned in this race for wealth.
H.N.D.
Lisle.
ODE TO MOUNT ARTHUR. (1880, February 19). Launceston Examiner (Tas. : 1842 - 1899), p. 3. Retrieved September 1, 2019, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article38255473