BATHGATE
A perfect peaceful stillness reigns,Not e’en a passing playful breezeThe sword-shaped flax-blades gently stirs:The vale and slopes of rising hillsAre thickly clothed with yellow grass,Whereon the sun, late risen, throwsHis rays, to linger listlessly.Naught the expanse of yellow breaks,Save where a darker spot denotesSome straggling bush of thorny scrub;While from a gully down the glen,The foliage of the dull-leaved treesRises to view; and the calm airFrom stillness for a moment wakedBy parakeets’ harsh chattering,Swift followed by a tui’s trillOf bell-like notes, is hushed again.The tiny orbs of glistening dewStill sparkle, gem-like, ’mid the grass;While morning mist, their Mother moist,Reluctant loiters on the hill,Whence presently she’ll pass to mergeIn the soft depths of the blue heav’ns.This fertile Isle to us is givenFresh from its Maker’s hand; for hereNo records of the vanished pastTell of the time when might was right,And self-denial weakness was;But all is peaceful, pure, and fair.Our heritage is hope. We’ll rearA Nation worthy of the land;And when in age we linger late,Upon the heights above life’s vale,Before we, like the mist, shall mergeIn depths of God’s eternity,We’ll see, perchance, our influenceLeft dew-like, working for the goodOf those whose day but dawns below.Alexander Bathgate.
A perfect peaceful stillness reigns,Not e’en a passing playful breezeThe sword-shaped flax-blades gently stirs:The vale and slopes of rising hillsAre thickly clothed with yellow grass,Whereon the sun, late risen, throwsHis rays, to linger listlessly.Naught the expanse of yellow breaks,Save where a darker spot denotesSome straggling bush of thorny scrub;While from a gully down the glen,The foliage of the dull-leaved treesRises to view; and the calm airFrom stillness for a moment wakedBy parakeets’ harsh chattering,Swift followed by a tui’s trillOf bell-like notes, is hushed again.The tiny orbs of glistening dewStill sparkle, gem-like, ’mid the grass;While morning mist, their Mother moist,Reluctant loiters on the hill,Whence presently she’ll pass to mergeIn the soft depths of the blue heav’ns.This fertile Isle to us is givenFresh from its Maker’s hand; for hereNo records of the vanished pastTell of the time when might was right,And self-denial weakness was;But all is peaceful, pure, and fair.Our heritage is hope. We’ll rearA Nation worthy of the land;And when in age we linger late,Upon the heights above life’s vale,Before we, like the mist, shall mergeIn depths of God’s eternity,We’ll see, perchance, our influenceLeft dew-like, working for the goodOf those whose day but dawns below.Alexander Bathgate.
A perfect peaceful stillness reigns,Not e’en a passing playful breezeThe sword-shaped flax-blades gently stirs:The vale and slopes of rising hillsAre thickly clothed with yellow grass,Whereon the sun, late risen, throwsHis rays, to linger listlessly.Naught the expanse of yellow breaks,Save where a darker spot denotesSome straggling bush of thorny scrub;While from a gully down the glen,The foliage of the dull-leaved treesRises to view; and the calm airFrom stillness for a moment wakedBy parakeets’ harsh chattering,Swift followed by a tui’s trillOf bell-like notes, is hushed again.The tiny orbs of glistening dewStill sparkle, gem-like, ’mid the grass;While morning mist, their Mother moist,Reluctant loiters on the hill,Whence presently she’ll pass to mergeIn the soft depths of the blue heav’ns.This fertile Isle to us is givenFresh from its Maker’s hand; for hereNo records of the vanished pastTell of the time when might was right,And self-denial weakness was;But all is peaceful, pure, and fair.Our heritage is hope. We’ll rearA Nation worthy of the land;And when in age we linger late,Upon the heights above life’s vale,Before we, like the mist, shall mergeIn depths of God’s eternity,We’ll see, perchance, our influenceLeft dew-like, working for the goodOf those whose day but dawns below.
Alexander Bathgate.