 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
113
THE GOLD-DIGGINGS.
Behold a miracle!—when Mercy foundThat 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 multitudes went forth,
Pour'd 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.
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