To Doctor Lang

Little, perhaps, thou valuest verse of mine—
 Little hast read of what my hand has wrought,
Yet I with thy brave memory would entwine
 The muse’s amaranths. For thou well hast fought
 For freedom; well her sacred lessons taught;
Well baffled wrong; and delved with far design
Into those elements where treasures shine
 Excelling those wherewith our hills are fraught.
And when thy glorious grey head shall make
 One spot all-hallowed for the coming days—
Tombed in the golden land for whose sole sake
 With labour thou hast furrowed all thy ways,—
 Well a young nation shall thy worth appraise
Even through the grief which then shall o’er thee break