by Charles Harpur

My country, I am sore at heart for thee
And in mine ear, like a storm heralding breeze,
A voice against thee gathers warningly!
Lo, in what hands seem now they destinies!
Hands grasping all, through Party means, to seize
Some private benefit: and what should be
Thy Freedom's dawn but gives ascendency
To lawless Squatters, and the Hacks of these!
Woe waits a land whose Men are wise or brave
For naught but self! Where even the best aside
Are thrusting honesty to don the knave!
Where worth is trampled on by vulgar pride!
And where all beauty of the mind, decried,
Hangs dying o'er a Mammon-delved grave.