Trees half alive, with the sense of a curse on them,

Shudder and shrink from the black heavy gale;
Ghastly, with boughs like the plumes of a hearse on them:

Barren of blossom and blasted with bale.
Under the cliff that stares down to the south of it -

Back by the horns of a hazardous hill,
Dumb is the gorge with a grave in the mouth of it

Still, as a corpse in a coffin is still.
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Never there hovers a hope of the Spring by it -
Never a glimmer of yellow and green:

Only the bat with a whisper of wing by it
Flits like a life out of flesh and unseen.

Here are the growths that are livid and glutinous,
Speckled, and bloated with poisonous blood:

This is the haunt of the viper-breed mutinous:
Cursed with the curse of weird Catherine Flood.

He that hath looked on it - hurriedaghast from it,
Hair of him frozen with horror straightway,

Chased by a sudden strange pestilent blast from it -
Where is the speech of him - what can he say?

Hath he not seen the fierce ghost of a hag in it?
Heard maledictions that startle the stars?

Dumb is his mouth as a mouth with a gag in it -
Mute is his life as a life within bars.

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Just the one glimpse of that grey, shrieking woman there

Ringed by a circle of furnace and fiend!
He that went happy and healthy and human there -

Where shall the white leper fly to be cleaned?
Here, in a pit with indefinite doom on it,

Here, in the fumes of a feculent moat,
Under an alp with inscrutable gloom on it,

Squats the wild witch with a ghoul at her throat!
Black execration that cannot be spoken of -

Speech of red hell that would suffocate Song,
Starts from this terror with never a token of

Day and its loveliness all the year long.
Sin without name to it - man never heard of it -

Crime that would startle a fiend from his lair,
Blasted this Glen, and the leaf and the bird of it -

Where is there hope for it, Father, O where?
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Far in the days of our fathers, the life in it
Blossomed and beamed in the sight of the sun:

Yellow and green and the purple were rife in it,
Singers of morning and waters that run.

Storm of the equinox shed no distress on it,
Thunder spoke softly, and summer-time left

Sunset's forsaken bright beautiful dress on it -
Blessing that shone half the night in the cleft.

Hymns of the highlands - hosannas from hills by it,
Psalms of great forests made holy the spot:

Cool were the mosses and clear were the rills by it -
Far in the days when the Horror was not.

Twenty miles south is the strong, shining Hawkesbury -
Spacious and splendid, and lordly with blooms.

There, between mountains magnificent, walks bury
Miles of their beauty in green myrtle glooms.

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There, in the dell, is the fountain with falls by it -

Falls, and a torrent of summering stream:
There is the cave with the hyaline halls by it -

Haunt of the echo and home of the dream.
Over the hill, by the marvellous base of it,

Wanders the wind with a song in its breath
Out to the sea with the gold on the face of it -

Twenty miles south of the Valley of Death.
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ON A SPANISH CATHEDRAL
Note:Every Expression in these stanza's may fairly be claimed by the Hon.W.B.Dalley

DEEP under the spires of a hill, by the feet of the thunder-cloud trod,
I pause in a luminous, still, magnificenttemple of God!

At the steps of the altar august - a vision of angels in stone -
I kneel, with my head to the dust, on the floors by the seraphim known.

No father in Jesus is near, with the high, the passionate" target="_blank" title="a.有同情心的 vt.同情">compassionate face;
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But the glory of Godhead is here - its presence transfigures the place!
Behold in this beautiful fane, with the lights of blue heaven impearled,

I think of the Elders of Spain, in the deserts - the wilds of the world!
I think of the wanderers poor who knelt on the flints and the sands,

When the mighty and merciless Moor was lord of the Lady of Lands.
Where the African scimitar flamed, with a swift, bitter death in its kiss,

The fathers, unknown and unnamed, found God in cathedrals like this!
The glow of His Spirit - the beam of His blessing - made lords of the men

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Whose food was the herb of the stream, whose roof was the dome of the den.

And, far in the hills by the sea, these awful hierophants prayed
For Rome and its temples to be - in a temple by Deity made.

Who knows of their faith - of its power? Perhaps, with the light in their eyes,
They saw, in some wonderful hour, the marvel of centuries rise!

Perhaps in some moment supreme, when the mountains were holy and still,
They dreamed the magnificent dream that came to the monks of Seville!

Surrounded by pillars and spires whose summits shone out in the glare
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Of the high, the omnipotent fires, who knows what was seen by them there?
Be sure, if they saw, in the noon of their faith, some ineffable fane,

They looked on the church like a moon dropped down by the Lord into Spain.
And the Elders who shone in the time when Christ over Christendom beamed

May have dreamed at their altars sublime the dream that their fathers had dreamed,
By the glory of Italy moved - the majesty shining in Rome -

They turned to the land that they loved, and prayed for a church in their home;
And a soul of unspeakable fire descended on them, and they fought

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And laboured a life for the spire and tower and dome of their thought!

These grew under blessing and praise, as morning in summertime grows -
As Troy in the dawn of the days to the music of Delphicus rose.

In a land of bewildering light, where the feet of the season are Spring's,
They worked in the day and the night, surrounded by beautiful things.

The wonderful blossoms in stone - the flower and leaf of the Moor,
On column and cupola shone, and gleamed on the glimmering floor.

In a splendour of colour and form, from the marvellous African's hands
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Yet vivid and shining and warm, they planted the Flower of the Lands.
Inspired by the patiencesupreme of the mute, the magnificent past,

They toiled till the dome of their dream in the firmamentblossomed at last!
Just think of these men - of their time - of the days of their deed, and the scene!

How touching their zeal - how sublime their suppression of self must have been!
In a city yet hacked by the sword and scarred by the flame of the Moor,

They started the work of their Lord, sad, silent, and solemnly poor.
These fathers, how little they thought of themselves, and how much of the days

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When the children of men would be brought to pray in their temple, and praise!

Ah! full of the radiant, still, heroic old life that has flown,
The merciful monks of Seville toiled on, and died bare and unknown.

The music, the colour, the gleam of their mightycathedral will be
Hereafter a luminous dream of the heaven I never may see;

To a spirit that suffers and seeks for the calm of a competent creed,