down towards the languid, sinking sun,
the winding, wattle-guarded track,
passed, and left his heavy swag, as one
casts the weight of troubles from his back,
leaves the world, and life, and care behind,
onward fares,---to seek, and know, and find.
the Bush, in that last moment saw
minstrel, rapt and joyful, gliding on,
all the trees bowed silent crests in awe,
one lone song-bird mourned, when he had gone.
when had sunk the fiery-hearted sun,
poet's pilgrimage was done.
loved her well. To her he gave his
her he lived, and toiled, and spent his days,
now, when there has come that quiet call,
it too late to deck his name with praise?
Westward, westward sank the dying sun,
tear-dimmed stars marched forward one by one.
R Guy Howarth