Long time beside the squatter's gate 
A great grey Box-Tree, early, late, 
Or shine or rain, in silence there 
Had stood and watched the seasons fare: 
Had seen the wind upon the plain 
Caress the amber ears of grain; 
The river burst its banks and come 
Far past its belt of mighty gum: 
Had seen the scarlet months of drought 
Scourging the land with fiery knout; 
And seasons ill and seasons good 
Had alternated as they would. 
The years were born, had grown and gone, 
While suns had set and suns had shone; 
Fierce flames had swept; chill waters drenched;? 
That sturdy yeoman never blenched. 

The Tree had watched the station grow? 
The buildings rising row on row; 
And from that point of vantage green, 
Peering athwart its leafy screen, 
The wondering soldier-birds had seen 
The lumbering bullock-dray draw near, 
Led by that swarthy pioneer 
Who, gazing at the pleasant shade, 
Was tempted, dropped his whip and stayed; 
Brought there his wanderings to a close; 
Unloosed the polished yokes and bows. 

The bullocks, thankful for the boon, 
Rang on their bells a merry tune: 
The hobbles clinked; the horses grazed; 
The snowy calico was raised; 
The fire was lit; the fragrant tea 
Drunk to a sunset melody 
Tuned by the day before it died 
To waken on Earth's other side. 
There 'twas, beneath that Box-Tree's shade, 
Fortune's foundation-stone was laid; 
Cemented fast with toil and thrift, 
Stone upon stone was laid to lift 
A mighty arch, commemorate 
Of one who reached the goal too late. 
That white-haired pioneer with pride 
Fitted the keystone; then he died: 
His toil, his thrift, all to what boot? 
He gave his life for Dead Sea fruit: 
What did it boot his wide domain 
Of feathered pine and sweeping plain, 
Sand-ridge and turf? for he lay dead? 
Another reigning in his stead. 

His sons forgot him; but that Tree 
Mourned for him long and silently, 
And o'er the old man's lonely bier 
Would, if he could, have dropped a tear. 
One other being only shared 
His grief: one other only cared: 
And she was but a six years' maid? 
His grandchild, who had watched him fade 
In childish ignorance; and wept 
Because the poor old grand-dad slept 
So long a sleep, and never came 
To smile upon her at her game, 
Or tell her stories of the fays 
And giants of the olden days. 
She cared; and, as the seasons sped, 
Linked by the memory of the dead, 
They two, the Box-Tree and the Child, 
Grew old in friendship; and she smiled, 
Clapping her chubby hands with glee, 
When for her pleasure that old Tree 
Would shake his limbs, and let the light 
Glance in a million sparkles bright 
From off his polished olive cloak. 
Then would the infant gently stroke 
His massive bole, and laughing try 
To count the patches of blue sky 
Betwixt his leaves, or in the shades 
That trembled on the grassy blades 
Trace curious faces, till her head 
Of gold grew heavy; then he'd spread 
His leaves to shield her, while he droned 
A lullaby, so softly toned 
It seemed but as the gentle sigh 
Of Summer as she floated by; 
While bird and beast grew humble-voiced, 
Seeing those golden ringlets moist 
With dew of sleep. With one small hand 
Grasping a grass-stem for a wand, 
Titania slept. Nature nor spoke, 
Nor dared to breathe, until she woke. 

The years passed onward; and perchance 
The Tree had shot his tufted lance 
Up to the sky a few slow feet; 
But one great limb grew down to greet 
His mistress, who had ne'er declined 
In love for him, though far behind 
Her child-life lay, and now she stood 
Waiting to welcome womanhood. 
She loved him always as of old; 
Yet would his great roots grasp the mould, 
And knotted branches grind and groan 
To see her seek him not alone; 
For lovers came, and 'neath those boughs 
With suave conversing sought to rouse 
The slumbering passion in a breast 
Whose coldness gave an added zest 
To the pursuit;?but all in vain: 
They spoke the once, nor came again? 
Save one alone, who pressed his suit 
(Man-like, he loved forbidden fruit) 
And strove to change her Nay to Yea, 
Until it fell upon a day 
Once more he put his fate to proof 
Standing beneath that olive roof; 
And though her answer still was `No' 
He, half-incensed, refused to go, 
Asking her, Had she heart for none 
Because there was some other one 
Who claimed it all? Whereon the maid 
Slipped off her ring and laughing said: 
`Look you, my friend! here now I prove 
The truth of it, and pledge my love!'? 
And, poised on tiptoe, touched a limb 
That bent to gratify her whim. 
She slipped the golden circle on 
A tiny branchlet, whence it shone 
Mocking the suitor with its gleam?