Oh! read these verses with indulgent eyes,
And since they're written for the book you prize,
Let them presume a vacant page to find
'Midst the chaste wreath, cull'd by your tasteful mind.
England's fam'd poet, when he made that pray'r *
To one he said he lov'd, like you perhaps fair;
Wish'd that her heart a vacant spot retained,
Where he might write the flame he felt, or feign'd.
Not mine that wish - I've been too long the sport
Of wayward Fate, and seldom I resort
Where beauty smiles; there's danger in her eye;
And, since I cannot fight, I always fly.
Australia now contains as sweet, as fair,
As lovely features as are found elsewhere:
But though 'tis sweet to gaze on beaming eyes,
I shun their glances and avoid surprise.
I could but love the loveliest - well for me,
Since fortune frowns, that my own heart is free;
Free as the life I lead, since now I roam
From wild to wild, and cannot boast a home.
You perhaps think all must love - well! be it so -
I love - I am not mad-not now - oh! no;
I love - sometimes to write my thoughts in books,
And gain a sunny smile from beauty's looks,
The thought now cheers me - perhaps when I'm forgot,
And roaming distant from this happy spot ;
That eyes, like yours, as brilliant, looks as fair,
May chance to linger for a moment there.
* See Moore's Poems - " Lines written for a scrap book."
First published in The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 31 July 1830
