And when high thunder smites the hill
And hunts the wild dog to his den,
Thy cries, like maledictions, shrill
And shriek from glen to glen,
As if a frightful memory whipped
Thy soul for some infernal crime
That left it blasted, blind, and stript --
A dread to Death and Time!
But when the fair-haired August dies,
And flowers wax strong and beautiful,
Thy songs are stately harmonies
By wood-lights green and cool --
Most like the voice of one who shows
Through sufferings fierce, in fine relief,
A noble patience and repose --
A dignity in grief.
But, ah! conceptions fade away,
And still the life that lives in thee --
The soul of thy majestic lay --
Remains a mystery!
And he must speak the speech divine --
The language of the high-throned lords --
Who'd give that grand old theme of thine
Its sense in faultless words.
By hollow lands and sea-tracts harsh,
With ruin of the fourfold gale,
Where sighs the sedge and sobs the marsh,
Still wail thy lonely wail;
And, year by year, one step will break
The sleep of far hill-folded streams,
And seek, if only for thy sake
Thy home of many dreams.
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