Down rocks that the lichen makes hoary,
The garlanded tendril-blooms trail
To the woods where the wing of the lory
The scarlet geranium strikes pale;
O'er the aloe the honey-birds quiver
Like emeralds, feathered with flame,
While the kingfisher's plunge sends a shiver
Of light through the depths of the stream.
Sweet orchids, in shadow reposing,
Sigh scents on the path of the bee;
Bright lilies in splendour enclosing,
Woo butterflies over the lea;
Soft moss, for a dryad fit pillow,
Droops thick over tree-trunk and stone
In the depths of each fern-brimming hollow,
Where the moistening sea's breath is blown.
O'er a league of fair woodland and meadow,
Rich in flower and grass and soft fern,
Where the antelope couches in shadow,
And the curlew pipes over the tarn,
Lie the infinite waters of wonder,
Man's terror and scourge and delight—
That rave with the tempest in thunder,
Or laugh like a child in the light.
Here the silence at midnight is shattered
By the cry of the breakers in pain,
When the strength of their legion is scattered,
And their might is as curbed with a chain;
