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Scorn not the race who once in native right
Marched fearless o'er Australia's sunny plain;
Darkness must sink before the breaking light,
And of those sons of Nature few remain.
O! while we pluck the flow'rs that bloomed for them,
And reap our harvests where they careless trod,
To this poor remnant let us still proclaim
The works of Nature are the gifts of God.
1842.
From book:
Straws on the Stream
