Classic Poem

Is the old pier still at the shell shod landing
Down where the gnarled old figtree stood?
Is the bower at the back of the beach still standing
Where I first learnt the glory of womanhood?

Does the shining sand in the sunlight shimmer
Like diamond prism on beads of dew?
Do they spear and sparkle, and glint and glimmer,
And softly blink in the moonlight, too?

Does the pink-lipped shell kiss the white wave twining
And softly sing as you used to do
As we lay at length on the sands reclining,
Ere my dull soul its own secret knew?

Does the blue wave pale, as it rides and reaches
To deftly spread o'er the hot sands white,
The silvery sheet made for beds of beaches,
Then scamper back like a child in fright?

Say, do the she-oaks still purl with the ocean,
Out on the cliffs when the skies are blue?
Do they quick respond to the wind's emotion,
And shriek or sing as it tells them to?

Ah! how these maddening memories haunt me,
At court, or levee, on field or row;
On the laughing launch they accuse and taunt me,
And burn in my boudoir's firelight glow.

When in thought I stand on the fair blue mountains,
And list again to its echoing falls,
I hate the sound of these tinkling fountains,
And sham of exotic art-made walls.

For what is the scent of the hot-house blossom?
What to the perfume of the blue gum-tree?
(Did I hear the squeal of the playful 'possum
Or fife of the marching battery?)
Could I but break from this gold accursed fashion,
And flee the bondage of courtly show,
I would flout my lord with his luke-warm passion,
And free my soul from a gilded woe.
Would I could fly where the white cloud mottles
The smiling face of the Southern sea!
Oh would I could stand tonight in the wattles,
And pledge myself to my land and thee!