"Down Under,": A Year in Netherlands India, the Commonwealth, the Dominion

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Printed at the "Ceylon observer" Press, 1912 - 143 pages
 

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Page 128 - As you are now so once was I; As I am now so you must be, Prepare for death and follow me.
Page 69 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Page 31 - The fig-tree, not that kind for fruit renown'd, But such as, at this day, to Indians known; In Malabar or Decan spreads her arms, Branching so broad and long, that in the ground The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow About the mother tree, a pillar'd shade, High overarch'd, and echoing walks between...
Page 96 - Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed; The next, in majesty; in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go; To make a third, she joined the former two.
Page 5 - Whereas the people of New South Wales, Victoria, South Australia, Queensland, and Tasmania, humbly relying on the blessing of Almighty God, have agreed to unite in one indissoluble Federal Commonwealth under the Crown of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and under the Constitution hereby established...
Page 82 - But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing Of gentle breath and hue.
Page 8 - Had I permitted myself any innovation upon the original term (Terra Australis), it would have been to convert it into Australia, as being more agreeable to the ear and an assimilation to the names of the other great portions of the earth.
Page iii - THREE Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed; The next in majesty •, In both the last. The force of Nature could no further go ; To make a third, she joined the former two.
Page 130 - No game was ever yet worth a rap For a rational man to play, Into which no accident, no mishap, Could possibly find its way.
Page 81 - Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place...

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