orget our summer sky, our Windermere and Devon?
I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land, Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand; Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know, And little reck "the place of birth," or colour of the brow; Yet though I hail'd a foreign name among the first and best, Our own transcendent stars of fame would rise within my breast; I'd point to hundreds who have done the most 'ere done by man, And cry "There's England's glory scroll," do better if you can!
A SONG FOR AUSTRALIA
GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND,
BY WILLIAM COX BENNET.
A thousand leagues below the line, 'neath southern stars and skies, 'Mid alien seas, a land that's ours, our own new England lies; From north to south, six thousand miles heave white with ocean foam, Between the dear old land we've left and this our new-found home; Yet what though ocean stretch between--though here this hour we stand! Our hearts, thank God! a
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