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Morning Above Dunedin.

God's golden limner of our planet's days,
  O'er summer's surface spreads his morning sheen,
  And on the trees a hundred tints of green
Are shimm'ring in the dazzle of his rays;
Beneath the boughs each breeze-stirr'd shadow plays,
  And side by side gnarl'd forest ancients lean
  Their tassell'd heads together. Through the scene
A lonely mountain creeklet sings and strays.
Melodious trills from feather'd exiles' throats—
  Pure warblings of the Old Land and the New,
Which silence all the tui's simpler notes—
Blend in a flood of euphony, that through
  The groves and bowers of clust'ring foliage floats
To chase the lark's sweet echoes in the blue.