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BALLAARAT
A VISION OF GOLD
I see a lone stream, rolling down
Through valleys green, by ranges brown
Of hills that bear no name,
The dawn's full blush in crimson flakes
Is traced on palest blue, as breaks
The morn in Orient flame.
I see—whence comes that eager gaze?
Why rein the steed, in wild amaze?
The water's hue is gold!
Golden its wavelets foam and glide,
Through tenderest green to ocean-tide
The fairy streamlet rolled.
"Forward, 'Hope!' forward! truest steed,
Of tireless hoof and desert speed,
Up the weird water bound,
Till, echoing far and sounding deep,
I hear old Ocean's hoarse voice sweep
O'er this enchanted ground?"
