A STORM IN THE CANGONG MOUNTAINS.
From topmost peak to lowliest creek,
The wind is dead and dry;
Where the bush-fire lags, the toppled crags
Stand up in the torrid sky.
Deep under the sedge, by the river's edge,
The speckled bull-frog shrieks;
Or by blistered blocks of jagged rocks,
Where swelter the dead-lipped creeks.
The wind is dead and dry;
Where the bush-fire lags, the toppled crags
Stand up in the torrid sky.
Deep under the sedge, by the river's edge,
The speckled bull-frog shrieks;
Or by blistered blocks of jagged rocks,
Where swelter the dead-lipped creeks.
'Tis the depth of noon, and the woods are strewn
With corpses of tree and bloom.
The reckless heat blasts the bearded wheat,
And day is a hell of doom.
The bellowing flocks lick the waterless rocks
That lie at the runnel's bed;
And like things accurst with a pitiless thirst,
Suck the foam from the lips of their dead.
With corpses of tree and bloom.
The reckless heat blasts the bearded wheat,
And day is a hell of doom.
The bellowing flocks lick the waterless rocks
That lie at the runnel's bed;
And like things accurst with a pitiless thirst,
Suck the foam from the lips of their dead.
Lo! the air grows deep, as a moveless sleep
On a sleeper on his couch;
And a stillness invades yon windless glades,
Where the panting dingoes crouch.
Like the dazzling gauge of a flaming forge,
The heat is white and fell;
And Cangong heights flare up in its lights,
Like bars in the jaws of hell.
On a sleeper on his couch;
And a stillness invades yon windless glades,
Where the panting dingoes crouch.
Like the dazzling gauge of a flaming forge,
The heat is white and fell;
And Cangong heights flare up in its lights,
Like bars in the jaws of hell.
Ah God! can'st Thou know the loss and the woe
That tramples our hearts beneath;
That the flocks and the fruits shrivel dead to their roots,
And rot on a blasted heath.
Our hopes are as graves, cast deep in the waves
Which a cold dereliction enchains,
For the clamour of death fills the air with a breath
That blisters, and stifles, and pains.
That tramples our hearts beneath;
That the flocks and the fruits shrivel dead to their roots,
And rot on a blasted heath.
Our hopes are as graves, cast deep in the waves
Which a cold dereliction enchains,
For the clamour of death fills the air with a breath
That blisters, and stifles, and pains.
See the scene is changed; o'er the sky is ranged
Long rolls of sable clouds,
Like huddled wolds, or inky folds
Of night-black Titans' shrouds.
On whirling stoles, the storm-wind rolls,
And carries the lightnings forth;
And thunders deep, rock the hills asleep,
Booming far in the troubled North.
Long rolls of sable clouds,
Like huddled wolds, or inky folds
Of night-black Titans' shrouds.
On whirling stoles, the storm-wind rolls,
And carries the lightnings forth;
And thunders deep, rock the hills asleep,
Booming far in the troubled North.
To dare the bale of the coming hail,
Or to follow the hurricane's track,
With wings outdrawn, as if stretched in scorn,
An eagle whirls round in the rack.
But a glaring streak strikes his bearded beak,
And he topples with feathery rattle;
And thunders crash on the lightning's flash,
Like a thousand guns in battle.
Or to follow the hurricane's track,
With wings outdrawn, as if stretched in scorn,
An eagle whirls round in the rack.
But a glaring streak strikes his bearded beak,
And he topples with feathery rattle;
And thunders crash on the lightning's flash,
Like a thousand guns in battle.
On the rock-barred crags, the tempest lags,
And covers all speech in eclipse,
Like demons outcast, who sit in the blast,
And howl with a myriad lips.
And the ruthless gale drives the icy hail
Like bolts over battle tracts;
And thunder drops on the wattle tops,
Fall like rushing cataracts.
And covers all speech in eclipse,
Like demons outcast, who sit in the blast,
And howl with a myriad lips.
And the ruthless gale drives the icy hail
Like bolts over battle tracts;
And thunder drops on the wattle tops,
Fall like rushing cataracts.
Through the gorges vast, the storm has past,
With its hurricane, hail, and roar;
And its thunders boom in the inky gloom,
Like seas on a lonely shore.
Down boulders steep, the cascades leap,
And foam where the precipice stops.
And fog-clad fays, from the runnel ways,
Creep aloft in the wattle tops.
With its hurricane, hail, and roar;
And its thunders boom in the inky gloom,
Like seas on a lonely shore.
Down boulders steep, the cascades leap,
And foam where the precipice stops.
And fog-clad fays, from the runnel ways,
Creep aloft in the wattle tops.
And down where the day ebbs its light away,
Deep down o'er the mist lined wolds,
White cloud drifts are there like seraphs at prayer,
Or lambs in their fleecy folds.
And glowing afar, peep planet and star,
O'er spaces and cloud-shadowed nooks.
And the songs of the night, heard o'er valley and height,
Are the psalms of the running brooks.
Deep down o'er the mist lined wolds,
White cloud drifts are there like seraphs at prayer,
Or lambs in their fleecy folds.
And glowing afar, peep planet and star,
O'er spaces and cloud-shadowed nooks.
And the songs of the night, heard o'er valley and height,
Are the psalms of the running brooks.