Reely's Poetry Blog

by MARGARET THOMAS (1843-1929)

Dead in the bush by his own rash hand,
Life from its shattered temple riven,
Staining with blood the sinless land,
Dead in the face of the outraged Heaven.

O for an hour of the genius ready
Which told how the Stockman's race was run!
O for an hour of the sinews steady
With which the steeplechase cup was won!

Hush ! where the wattles wave, at last
He rests in his own adopted land,
Poet, crowned, thro' the centuries vast,
Altho' he died by his rash right hand.