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?~
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.
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.
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