Behold a miracle! When Mercy found
That still in vain across the waters wide
Famine and Plenty to each other cried,
Pleading for food or feasters all around,-
God gave the word! and straight, with lumps of gold,
And brilliant specks among the rich black mould,
Some angel sowed the labour-craving ground;
And so the shoaling multitude went forth
Poured from this hive of nations in the North
To people our Antipodes. O Man!
When shall thy dullard soul acknowledge God,
Wondrous in perfecting, as wise in plan,-
Thus leading on Progression's eager van
By the poor fisher's lure,- a baited sod!