# Old Melbourne Memories/Ballaarat in 1851

BALLAARAT
A VISION OF GOLD
I see a lone stream, rolling down Through valleys green, by ranges brown Of hills that bear no name, The dawn's full blush in crimson flakes Is traced on palest blue, as breaks The morn in Orient flame.
I see—whence comes that eager gaze? Why rein the steed, in wild amaze? The water's hue is gold! Golden its wavelets foam and glide, Through tenderest green to ocean-tide The fairy streamlet rolled.
"Forward, 'Hope!' forward! truest steed, Of tireless hoof and desert speed, Up the weird water bound, Till, echoing far and sounding deep, I hear old Ocean's hoarse voice sweep O'er this enchanted ground?"
The sea!—wild fancy! Many a mile Of changeful Nature's frown and smile Ere stand we on the shore. And, yet! that murmur, hoarse and deep, None save the ocean-surges keep? It is—"the cradles' roar!"
Onward! we pass the grassy hill, Around the base the waters still Shimmer in golden foam; O wanderer of the voiceless wild, Of this far southern land the child, How changed thy quiet home!
For, close as bees in countless hive, Like emmet hosts that earnest strive, Swarmed, toiled, a vast, strange crowd: Haggard each worker's features seem, Bright, fever-bright, each eye's wild gleam, Nor cry, nor accent loud.
But each man dug, or rocked, or bore, As if salvation with the ore Of the mine-monarch lay. Gold strung each arm to giant might, Gold flashed before each aching sight, Gold turned the night to day.
Where Eblis reigns o'er boundless gloom, And, in his halls of endless doom Lost souls for ever roam, They wander (says the Eastern tale), Nor ever startles moan or wail Despair's eternal home.
Less silent scarce than that pale host These toiled, as if each moment lost Were the red life-drop spilt; While, heavy, rough, and darkly bright, In every shape, rolled to the light Man's hope, and pride, and guilt.
All ranks, all ages! Every land Had sent its conscripts forth, to stand In the gold-seekers' rank: The stalwart bushman's sinewy limb, The pale-faced son of trade—e'en him Who knew the fetters' clank...... 'Tis night: her jewelled mantle fills The busy valley, the dun hills, 'Tis a battle host's repose! A thousand watch-fires redly gleam, While ceaseless fusillades would seem To warn approaching foes.
The night is older. On the sward Stretched, I behold the heavens broad, When—a Shape rises dim, Then, clearer, fuller, I descry, By the swart brow, the star-bright eye, The Gnome-king's presence grim!
He stands upon a time-worn block; His dark form shades the snowy rock As cypress marble tomb: Nor fierce yet wild and sad his mien, His cloud-black tresses wave and stream, His deep tones break the gloom.
"Son of a tribe accursed, of those Whose greed has broken our repose Of the long ages dead, Think ye, for nought our ancient race Leaves olden haunts, the sacred place Of toils for ever fled?
"List while I tell of days to come, When men shall wish the hammers dumb That ring so ceaseless now; That every arm were palsy-tied, Nor ever wet on grey hillside Was the gold-seeker's brow.
"I see the old world's human tide Set southward on the ocean wide. I see a wood of masts, While crime or want, disease or death, With each sigh of the north-wind's breath, He on this fair shore casts.
"I see the murderer's barrel gleam, I hear the victim's hopeless scream Ring through these crimeless wastes; While each base son of elder lands Each witless dastard, in vast bands To the gold-city hastes.
"Disease shall claim her ready toll, Flushed vice and brutal crime the dole Of life shall ne'er deny; Danger and death shall stalk your streets, While staggering idiocy greets The horror-stricken eye!
"All men shall roll in the gold mire— The height, the depth of man's desire— Till come the famine years; Then all the land shall curse the day When first they rifled the dull clay, With deep remorseful tears.
"Fell want shall wake to fearful life The fettered demons. Civil strife Rears high a gory hand! I see a blood-splashed barricade, While dimly lights the twilight glade The soldier's flashing brand.
"But thou, son of the forest free! Thou art not, wert not foe to me, Frank tamer of the wild! Thou hast not sought the sunless home Where darkly delves the toiling Gnome, The mid-earth's swarthy child.
"Then, be thou ever, as of yore, A dweller in the woods, and o'er Fresh plains thy herds shall roam. Join not the vain and reckless crowd Who swell the city's pageant proud, But prize thy forest home."
He said: and, with an eldritch scream, The Gnome-king vanished—and my dream: Dawn's waking hour returned; Yet still the wild tones echoed clear, For many a day in reason's ear, And my heart inly burned.