Sonnet

When you arrive at Sydney, sailing up The harbour, a small central isle you'll see; With two or three low huts, but not a tree, Nor blade of grass,-upon't; and, on the top, A score of men, in coarse habiliments, Hewing the rock away. You may remember, Among the many evil-traced events Of a town life, some robbery, when December Brought on the long, dark nights-a neighbour's boy Tried for't, and banished. He, perchance, is one, Who yonder lift the pickaxe in the sun To level Pinchgut Island! If e'er joy Gladden'd your heart on England's shore, oh! Never Forget that Englishmen are banished here for ever.