Little, perhaps, thou valuest verse of mine— <br /> Little hast read of what my hand has wrought, <br />Yet I with thy brave memory would entwine <br /> The muse’s amaranths. For thou well hast fought <br /> For freedom; well her sacred lessons taught; <br />Well baffled wrong; and delved with far design <br />Into those elements where treasures shine <br /> Excelling those wherewith our hills are fraught. <br />And when thy glorious grey head shall make <br /> One spot all-hallowed for the coming days— <br />Tombed in the golden land for whose sole sake <br /> With labour thou hast furrowed all thy ways,— <br /> Well a young nation shall thy worth appraise <br />Even through the grief which then shall o’er thee break <br /> <br /><br /><br />Charles Harpur<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-doctor-lang/