From This Dull Portal Poem by Charles Tompson

From this dull portal (whence th' expectant eye
Surveys the partial, forest-bounded sky,
Roves o'er a portion of neglected ground,
With ruin'd huts and fences scatter'd round,
There, sated, closes on the dreary view,
No charms to tempt—no beauties to pursue)
Fancy awakes her meditative pow'rs
To paint the visions of departed hours.
Pourtrays the annals of the subject scene,
And gives to memory what it once has been.

Ill-fated hamlet! from each tott'ring shed,
Thy sable inmates perhaps for ever fled,
(Poor restless wand'rers of the woody plain!
The skies their covert—nature their domain)
Seek, with the birds, the casual dole of heav'n,
Pleas'd with their lot—content with what is giv'n.
Time was, and recent mem'ry speaks it true,
When round each little cot a garden grew,
A field whose culture serv'd a two-fold part,
Food and instruction in the rural art.
The lordling tenant and his sable wife
Were taught to prize the sweets of social life,
And send their offspring, in the dawn of youth,

To schools of learning and the paths of truth.*

Poor thoughtless almsman of the frugal wild!
All, all blush'd once to own this darkling child;
Scarce twelve revolving years their course have run
Since reformation's work was not begun;
In that dark era, thus the yearning heart
Taught the warm lip its dictates to impart;
“Lòst child! shall we the savage part pursue?
“Must all despise thee for thy sable hue?
“Will Charity no warm vicegerent send
“To own thee—Brother, or to call thee—Friend?
“True! there are some whose panting bosoms thirst,
“With holy zeal, to raise thee from the dust,
“T' infuse those truths to burden'd sinners giv'n,
“And fix thy wand'ring, reckless mind on heav'n;
“But these bright thoughts th' unwilling Fates deride;
“The will is theirs—th' ability deny'd.
“And shall, on these alone, the wretch repose
“T' apply the healing styptic to his woes?
“Ah, no! Young Hope, unwilling to expire,
“Yet, with light pinions, fans her slumb'ring fire!
“The day will come—nor distant be that day,
“When Superstition's mists shall melt away,
“And bright'ning beams of Truth's triumphant light
“From his lost empire chase the fiend of night!”

The day did come—the day so oft besought,
That on its wing the sacred balsam brought,
And gave a man to rule our Austral clime,
(His flow'r since gather'd by the hand of Time)
Who mourn'd the rigours of our brother's fate
And strove t' illume his unenlightened state;
Reason enforc'd what Charity began,
And Heav'n approv'd the philanthropic* plan.
Soon from the plain a modest structure rose,
Doom'd for the sable proselyte's repose,
Within whose walls that lasting boon was given,
The pow'r to trace Salvation's path to Heav'n:
There too, thro' Learning's maze, the youth were led
And views of civil arts before them spread;
Nor beam'd this soft benevolence in vain;
Warm Emulation broke the Gothic chain,
Docile, they struggled for contested bays
And snatch'd, from cultur'd youth, the meed of praise!
Go on, Britannia! consummate thy plan,
And train the hopeful pupil up to man;
What thousands here will then attest thy worth,

And bless the hour when Ocean gave the birth;
Thee, on whose walls resplendent and unfurl'd,
Meek Salem's banners wave and Christianize the world!

O bless'd Idea! by the Pow'rs above,
Shed on a heart, exalted in their love;
T' wake from sullen night the grov'ling soul,
And subject it to Reason's wise controul,
To breathe the spirit of enliv'ning truth,
And teach the bliss of Heav'n—eternal youth!
To thee, MACQUARIE, was the dictate giv'n,
Thou wert the chosen Delegate of Heav'n
Thousands adore thee for th' angelic deed,
And for thy parted soul invoke the Christian's meed!

Ill-fated Hamlet! round thy dull domain
Lone Silence holds her melancholy reign;
This lowly structure, where each Sabbath press'd
A pious group, by strangers is possess'd;
Thy once fair dawning beauties all are gone,
Thy gardens fallow lie, with weeds o'ergrown,
Wild flow'rs and spindling grass alone are seen
Where cornfield wav'd their undulating green,
Dark vines along the untrod footpaths creep,
And all the desert Landscape seems to weep.

Thus, shall Man's proudest, noblest projects fade,
And, with their founder, in the dust be laid;
Th' imperial palace and the lowly cot
Alike must share this universal lot,
And bow before th' all conquering scythe of Time—
Such was proud Ilion's fate, and such (alas!) is thine!