The Secret Key and Other Verses/The Nation Builders

by George Essex Evans

THE NATION BUILDERS

A handful of workers seeking the star of a strong
 intent
A handful of heroes scattered to conquer a conti-
 nent–
Thirst, and fever, and famine, drought, and ruin, and
 flood,
And the bones that bleach on the sandhill, and the
 spears that redden with blood;
And the pitiless might of the molten skies, at noon,
 on the sun-cracked plain,
And the walls of the northern jungles, shall front
 them ever in vain,
Till the land that lies like a giant asleep shall wake
 to the victory won,
And the hearts of the Nation Builders shall know
 that the work is done.

To North, on the seas of summer, where the pearl
 flotillas swim,
To East, where the axe is ringing in the heart of the
 ranges grim,
On the plains where the free wind bloweth by
 never a tree or shrub,
On the pine-topped slopes where the settler carves a
 home in the tropic scrub,
On fields where the miner sleeps unstirred by the
 ceaseless monotone
And crash of the stampers night and day at work on
 the milk-white stone,
'Tis war and stress, with never a pause to mourn for
 a stout heart gone,
Till the souls of the Nation Builders shall know that
 the work is done.

On the deck of the lonely light-ship, in the sand of
 the new-found West,
Where strong men fall and die like sheep in the thirst
 of the golden quest,
By the dry stock routes, by the burnt-up creeks, where
 the cattle sink and fail,
By the coral reefs, where the bêching boats swing on
 'neath the sun-tanned sail,

In the wild ravine where the searcher's gold is bought
 with his own heart's blood,
In the dark of the drive where the miner's life goes
 out with the swirling flood,
'Tis war and stress, with never a pause to mourn for
 a stout heart gone,
Till the lives of the Nation Builders have paid for the
 victory won.

In the glare and steam of the cities, the thunder and
 clatter of wheel,
By the teeming wharves, where the liners lie at rest
 on an even keel,
In the strife of a swelling commerce, at the desk in
 the dull routine
Where the soul of a man is warped and sunk to the
 soul of a mere machine,
In the flash of the wire to west and north, in the hum
 of the restless street,
In the pulse of the toiling press that beats all night
 in a fever heat,
Where the weary brain and the pen plod on 'neath
 the white electric light–
Tho' we fail and fall still the fight goes on; and ever
 our sons shall fight,

Till the land that lies like a giant asleep shall wake
 to the victory won,
And the hearts of the Nation Builders shall know
 that the work is done.

We are but the hands of the Builder, who toileth and
 frameth afar;
System, and order, and sequence; sun, and planet,
 and star–
Faint sparks of a Mighty Genius, a breath of the
 Over Soul,
Who shapes the thought of the workers wherever his
 worlds may roll.
On! tho' we grope and blunder, the trend of our aim
 is true!
On! there is death in dalliance whilst yet there is
 work to do,
Till the land that lies like a giant asleep shall wake to
 the victory won,
And the eyes of the Master Worker shall see that the
 work is done.