What the Heart of the Poet Said to the 'Bulletin’
Tell me not in future numbers
That our thought becomes inane,
That our metre halts and lumbers,
When the Wattle blooms again.
Lies of great men all remind us
We can challenge and restrain
Such attempts to bluff and blind us,
When the Wattle blooms again.
Therefore take our gage of battle!
Freedom reasserts her reign:
We are not dumb, driven, cattle
When the Wattle blooms again.
Doubtless ANSWERS, weekly, daily,
Adding to his heap of slain,
Feels a jar, when Nature gaily
Bids the Wattle bloom again.
Nocent censor! time thou learnest
All this contract may contain—
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
But the Wattle blooms again.
Time may change this loyal journal
From religious to profane,
But a rhythmic law eternal
Makes the Wattle bloom again.
Trust no Flossie, howe’er pleasant,
Sweeps are treacherous, totes are vain;
Banks and scrip are evanescent,
But the Wattle blooms again.
Cultivate no fair ideal;
Own no country-seat in Spain;
All these things must go to Sheol,
Whil’st the Wattle blooms again.
Czar, and Pope, and Dei Gratia
Pass like phantoms of the brain
Never so our bright acacia,
For the Wattle blooms again.
Thus you see, austere and lonely,
Sailing o’er Life’s solemn main,
One great fact is certain only—
That the Wattle blooms again.
