Stawell

Atalanta's southern daughter
   With wild-flowers in her hair,
The healthful years have brought her
   Graces and gifts most rare.
And, guarded by her Grampians,
   She dwells in glad content,
And beckons to the champions
   Of all the continent.
 
Where glowing beauty dapples
   Her fields each sunlit day,
She gleams, not golden apples,
   But blooms beside the way.
And ere her blossoms wither,
   While glory crowns the year
The wise men, too, come hither
   To pay her homage here.
 
The botanists who woo her
   About her gardens flock;
Geologists who sue her
   Win secrets from the rock.
And so, to the aesthetic
   One gracious hand she lifts,
And one to the athletic
   Bearing most generous gifts.
 
But not the cult of beauty
   And prizes for the fleet
Comprise the sum of duty
   Of this rare maid, and sweet.
Where crooked streets go winding
   With all their old-world charm,
The lame and halt are finding
   Comfort in her strong arm.
 
For when the Grampians glower
   Across her star-strewn lands,
Mercy comes to full flower
   Where her kind hostel stands.
Thus has her full life taught her
   To triumph and to spare -
Atalanta's pleasant daughter
   With wild-flowers in her hair.