10 Best Famous Floods Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Floods poems. This is a select list of the best famous Floods poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Floods poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of floods poems.

• All Famous Floods Poems

 BUT two miles more, and then we rest ! 
Well, there is still an hour of day, 
And long the brightness of the West 
Will light us on our devious way; 
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood­ 
So total is the solitude, 
We safely may delay. 

These massive roots afford a seat, 
Which seems for weary travellers made. 
There rest. The air is soft and sweet 
In this sequestered forest glade, 
And there are scents of flowers around, 
The evening dew draws from the ground;
How soothingly they spread ! 

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; 
No­that beats full of sweet content, 
For now I have my natural part 
Of action with adventure blent; 
Cast forth on the wide vorld with thee, 
And all my once waste energy
To weighty purpose bent. 

Yet­say'st thou, spies around us roam, 
Our aims are termed conspiracy ? 
Haply, no more our English home 
An anchorage for us may be ? 
That there is risk our mutual blood 
May redden in some lonely wood 
The knife of treachery ? 

Say'st thou­that where we lodge each night, 
In each lone farm, or lonelier hall 
Of Norman Peer­ere morning light 
Suspicion must as duly fall,
As day returns­such vigilance 
Presides and watches over France, 
Such rigour governs all ? 

I fear not, William; dost thou fear ? 
So that the knife does not divide, 
It may be ever hovering near: 
I could not tremble at thy side, 
And strenuous love­like mine for thee­
Is buckler strong, 'gainst treachery, 
And turns its stab aside. 

I am resolved that thou shalt learn 
To trust my strength as I trust thine; 
I am resolved our souls shall burn, 
With equal, steady, mingling shine;
Part of the field is conquered now, 
Our lives in the same channel flow, 
Along the self-same line; 

And while no groaning storm is heard, 
Thou seem'st content it should be so, 
But soon as comes a warning word 
Of danger­straight thine anxious brow 
Bends over me a mournful shade, 
As doubting if my powers are made 
To ford the floods of woe. 

Know, then it is my spirit swells, 
And drinks, with eager joy, the air 
Of freedom­where at last it dwells,
Chartered, a common task to share 
With thee, and then it stirs alert,
And pants to learn what menaced hurt
Demands for thee its care. 

Remember, I have crossed the deep, 
And stood with thee on deck, to gaze 
On waves that rose in threatening heap, 
While stagnant lay a heavy haze, 
Dimly confusing sea with sky, 
And baffling, even, the pilot's eye, 
Intent to thread the maze­ 

Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast,
And find a way to steer our band
To the one point obscure, which lost,
Flung us, as victims, on the strand;­
All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword,
And not a wherry could be moored
Along the guarded land. 

I feared not then­I fear not now; 
The interest of each stirring scene 
Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow, 
In every nerve and bounding vein; 
Alike on turbid Channel sea, 
Or in still wood of Normandy, 
I feel as born again. 

The rain descended that wild morn 
When, anchoring in the cove at last, 
Our band, all weary and forlorn, 
Ashore, like wave-worn sailors, cast­ 
Sought for a sheltering roof in vain, 
And scarce could scanty food obtain 
To break their morning fast. 

Thou didst thy crust with me divide, 
Thou didst thy cloak around me fold; 
And, sitting silent by thy side, 
I ate the bread in peace untold: 
Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet 
As costly fare or princely treat 
On royal plate of gold. 

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, 
And, rising wild, the gusty wind 
Drove on those thundering waves apace, 
Our crew so late had left behind; 
But, spite of frozen shower and storm, 
So close to thee, my heart beat warm, 
And tranquil slept my mind. 

So now­nor foot-sore nor opprest
With walking all this August day,
I taste a heaven in this brief rest,
This gipsy-halt beside the way.
England's wild flowers are fair to view,
Like balm is England's summer dew,
Like gold her sunset ray. 

But the white violets, growing here,
Are sweeter than I yet have seen,
And ne'er did dew so pure and clear
Distil on forest mosses green,
As now, called forth by summer heat,
Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat­
These fragrant limes between. 

That sunset ! Look beneath the boughs,
Over the copse­beyond the hills;
How soft, yet deep and warm it glows,
And heaven with rich suffusion fills;
With hues where still the opal's tint,
Its gleam of poisoned fire is blent,
Where flame through azure thrills ! 

Depart we now­for fast will fade
That solemn splendour of decline,
And deep must be the after-shade
As stars alone to-night will shine;
No moon is destined­pale­to gaze
On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze,
A day in fires decayed ! 

There­hand-in-hand we tread again 
The mazes of this varying wood, 
And soon, amid a cultured plain, 
Girt in with fertile solitude, 
We shall our resting-place descry, 
Marked by one roof-tree, towering high 
Above a farm-stead rude. 

Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare, 
We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease; 
Courage will guard thy heart from fear, 
And Love give mine divinest peace: 
To-morrow brings more dangerous toil, 
And through its conflict and turmoil 
We'll pass, as God shall please.

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind?
Distinguish all those floods that are
Mixed in that wat'ry theater,
And taste thou them as saltless there,
As in their channel first they were.
Tell me the people that do keep
Within the kingdoms of the deep;
Or fetch me back that cloud again,
Beshivered into seeds of rain.
Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears
Of corn, when summer shakes his ears;
Show me that world of stars, and whence
They noiseless spill their influence.
This if thou canst; then show me Him
That rides the glorious cherubim.

 I 

There was a roaring in the wind all night; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods; 
But now the sun is rising calm and bright; 
The birds are singing in the distant woods; 
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; 
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; 
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. 

II 

All things that love the sun are out of doors; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors 
The hare is running races in her mirth; 
And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 

III 

I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
I saw the hare that raced about with joy; 
I heard the woods and distant waters roar; 
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: 
The pleasant season did my heart employ: 
My old remembrances went from me wholly; 
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 

IV 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low; 
To me that morning did it happen so; 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came; 
Dim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. 

V 

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
And I bethought me of the playful hare: 
Even such a happy Child of earth am I; 
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all care; 
But there may come another day to me-- 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 

VI 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
As if life's business were a summer mood; 
As if all needful things would come unsought 
To genial faith, still rich in genial good; 
But how can He expect that others should 
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? 

VII 

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; 
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
Following his plough, along the mountain-side: 
By our own spirits are we deified: 
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; 
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. 

VIII 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something given, 
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place, 
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a Man before me unawares: 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. 

IX 

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
By what means it could thither come, and whence; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense: 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; 

X 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 
Nor all asleep--in his extreme old age: 
His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage; 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 

XI 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood: 
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
That heareth not the loud winds when they call 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 

XII 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 
As if he had been reading in a book: 
And now a stranger's privilege I took; 
And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." 

XIII 

A gentle answer did the old Man make, 
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: 
And him with further words I thus bespake, 
"What occupation do you there pursue? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes, 

XIV 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
But each in solemn order followed each, 
With something of a lofty utterance drest-- 
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 
Of ordinary men; a stately speech; 
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 

XV 

He told, that to these waters he had come 
To gather leeches, being old and poor: 
Employment hazardous and wearisome! 
And he had many hardships to endure: 
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; 
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance, 
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 

XVI 

The old Man still stood talking by my side; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; 
And the whole body of the Man did seem 
Like one whom I had met with in a dream; 
Or like a man from some far region sent, 
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 

XVII 

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed; 
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; 
And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
--Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
My question eagerly did I renew, 
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" 

XVIII 

He with a smile did then his words repeat; 
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the pools where they abide. 
"Once I could meet with them on every side; 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 

XIX 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
The old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me: 
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
About the weary moors continually, 
Wandering about alone and silently. 
While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 

XX 

And soon with this he other matter blended, 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 
But stately in the main; and when he ended, 
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; 
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"

 PALE GODDESS of the witching hour;
Blest Contemplation's placid friend; 
Oft in my solitary bow'r,
I mark thy lucid beam
From thy crystal car descend,
Whitening the spangled heath, and limpid sapphire stream. 

And oft, amidst the shades of night
I court thy undulating light;
When Fairies dance around the verdant ring,
Or frisk beside the bubbling spring,
When the thoughtless SHEPHERD'S song
Echoes thro' the silent air,
As he pens his fleecy care,
Or plods with saunt'ring gait, the dewy meads along. 

CHASTE ORB! as thro' the vaulted sky
Feath'ry clouds transparent sail; 
When thy languid, weeping eye,
Sheds its soft tears upon the painted vale; 
As I ponder o'er the floods,
Or tread with listless step, th'embow'ring woods,
O, let thy transitory beam,
Soothe my sad mind, with FANCY'S aëry dream. 

Wrapt in REFLECTION, let me trace 
O'er the vast ethereal space, 
Stars, whose twinkling fires illume 
Dark-brow'd NIGHT'S obtrusive gloom; 
Where across the concave wide; 
Flaming METEORS swiftly glide; 
Or along the milky way, 
Vapours shoot a silvery ray;
And as I mark, thy faint reclining head, 
Sinking on Ocean's pearly bed;
Let REASON tell my soul, thus all things fade. 

The Seasons change, the "garish SUN"
When Day's burning car hath run
Its fiery course, no more we view,
While o'er the mountain's golden head,
Streak'd with tints of crimson hue,
Twilight's filmy curtains spread,
Stealing o'er Nature's face, a desolating shade. 

Yon musky FLOW'R, that scents the earth;
The SOD, that gave its odours birth; 
The ROCK, that breaks the torrent's force; 
The VALE, that owns its wand'ring course; 
The woodlands where the vocal throng 
Trill the wild melodious song; 
Thirsty desarts, sands that glow, 
Mountains, cap'd with flaky snow; 
Luxuriant groves, enamell'd fields,
All, all, prolific Nature yields,
Alike shall end; the sensate HEART,
With all its passions, all its fire,
Touch'd by FATE'S unerring dart,
Shall feel its vital strength expire;
Those eyes, that beam with FRIENDSHIP'S ray,
And glance ineffable delight,
Shall shrink from LIFE'S translucid day, 
And close their fainting orbs, in DEATH'S impervious night. 

Then what remains for mortal pow'r;
But TIME'S dull journey to beguile;
To deck with joy, the winged hour,
To meet its sorrows with a patient smile; 
And when the toilsome pilgrimage shall end, 
To greet the tyrant, as a welcome friend.

 By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

 Dim vales- and shadowy floods-
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane-
Again- again- again-
Every moment of the night-
Forever changing places-
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down- still down- and down,
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be-
O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea-
Over spirits on the wing-
Over every drowsy thing-
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light-
And then, how deep!- O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like- almost anything-
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before-
Videlicet, a tent-
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

 But two miles more, and then we rest ! 
Well, there is still an hour of day, 
And long the brightness of the West 
Will light us on our devious way; 
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood­ 
So total is the solitude, 
We safely may delay. 

These massive roots afford a seat, 
Which seems for weary travellers made. 
There rest. The air is soft and sweet 
In this sequestered forest glade, 
And there are scents of flowers around, 
The evening dew draws from the ground;
How soothingly they spread ! 

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; 
No­that beats full of sweet content, 
For now I have my natural part 
Of action with adventure blent; 
Cast forth on the wide vorld with thee, 
And all my once waste energy
To weighty purpose bent. 

Yet­say'st thou, spies around us roam, 
Our aims are termed conspiracy ? 
Haply, no more our English home 
An anchorage for us may be ? 
That there is risk our mutual blood 
May redden in some lonely wood 
The knife of treachery ? 

Say'st thou­that where we lodge each night, 
In each lone farm, or lonelier hall 
Of Norman Peer­ere morning light 
Suspicion must as duly fall,
As day returns­such vigilance 
Presides and watches over France, 
Such rigour governs all ? 

I fear not, William; dost thou fear ? 
So that the knife does not divide, 
It may be ever hovering near: 
I could not tremble at thy side, 
And strenuous love­like mine for thee­
Is buckler strong, 'gainst treachery, 
And turns its stab aside. 

I am resolved that thou shalt learn 
To trust my strength as I trust thine; 
I am resolved our souls shall burn, 
With equal, steady, mingling shine;
Part of the field is conquered now, 
Our lives in the same channel flow, 
Along the self-same line; 

And while no groaning storm is heard, 
Thou seem'st content it should be so, 
But soon as comes a warning word 
Of danger­straight thine anxious brow 
Bends over me a mournful shade, 
As doubting if my powers are made 
To ford the floods of woe. 

Know, then it is my spirit swells, 
And drinks, with eager joy, the air 
Of freedom­where at last it dwells,
Chartered, a common task to share 
With thee, and then it stirs alert,
And pants to learn what menaced hurt
Demands for thee its care. 

Remember, I have crossed the deep, 
And stood with thee on deck, to gaze 
On waves that rose in threatening heap, 
While stagnant lay a heavy haze, 
Dimly confusing sea with sky, 
And baffling, even, the pilot's eye, 
Intent to thread the maze­ 

Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast,
And find a way to steer our band
To the one point obscure, which lost,
Flung us, as victims, on the strand;­
All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword,
And not a wherry could be moored
Along the guarded land. 

I feared not then­I fear not now; 
The interest of each stirring scene 
Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow, 
In every nerve and bounding vein; 
Alike on turbid Channel sea, 
Or in still wood of Normandy, 
I feel as born again. 

The rain descended that wild morn 
When, anchoring in the cove at last, 
Our band, all weary and forlorn, 
Ashore, like wave-worn sailors, cast­ 
Sought for a sheltering roof in vain, 
And scarce could scanty food obtain 
To break their morning fast. 

Thou didst thy crust with me divide, 
Thou didst thy cloak around me fold; 
And, sitting silent by thy side, 
I ate the bread in peace untold: 
Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet 
As costly fare or princely treat 
On royal plate of gold. 

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, 
And, rising wild, the gusty wind 
Drove on those thundering waves apace, 
Our crew so late had left behind; 
But, spite of frozen shower and storm, 
So close to thee, my heart beat warm, 
And tranquil slept my mind. 

So now­nor foot-sore nor opprest
With walking all this August day,
I taste a heaven in this brief rest,
This gipsy-halt beside the way.
England's wild flowers are fair to view,
Like balm is England's summer dew,
Like gold her sunset ray. 

But the white violets, growing here,
Are sweeter than I yet have seen,
And ne'er did dew so pure and clear
Distil on forest mosses green,
As now, called forth by summer heat,
Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat­
These fragrant limes between. 

That sunset ! Look beneath the boughs,
Over the copse­beyond the hills;
How soft, yet deep and warm it glows,
And heaven with rich suffusion fills;
With hues where still the opal's tint,
Its gleam of poisoned fire is blent,
Where flame through azure thrills ! 

Depart we now­for fast will fade
That solemn splendour of decline,
And deep must be the after-shade
As stars alone to-night will shine;
No moon is destined­pale­to gaze
On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze,
A day in fires decayed ! 

There­hand-in-hand we tread again 
The mazes of this varying wood, 
And soon, amid a cultured plain, 
Girt in with fertile solitude, 
We shall our resting-place descry, 
Marked by one roof-tree, towering high 
Above a farm-stead rude. 

Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare, 
We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease; 
Courage will guard thy heart from fear, 
And Love give mine divinest peace: 
To-morrow brings more dangerous toil, 
And through its conflict and turmoil 
We'll pass, as God shall please.


[The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes acted in France during
the last year of the Consulate.]

 1 The golden-rod is yellow; 
2 The corn is turning brown;
3 The trees in apple orchards
4 With fruit are bending down.

5 The gentian's bluest fringes
6 Are curling in the sun;
7 In dusty pods the milkweed
8 Its hidden silk has spun.

9 The sedges flaunt their harvest,
10 In every meadow nook;
11 And asters by the brook-side
12 Make asters in the brook,

13 From dewy lanes at morning
14 The grapes' sweet odors rise;
15 At noon the roads all flutter
16 With yellow butterflies.

17 By all these lovely tokens 
18 September days are here,
19 With summer's best of weather,
20 And autumn's best of cheer.

21 But none of all this beauty
22 Which floods the earth and air
23 Is unto me the secret
24 Which makes September fair.

25 'T is a thing which I remember;
26 To name it thrills me yet:
27 One day of one September
28 I never can forget.

 (Lines written in the Vale of Chamouni)

1

The everlasting universe of things
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,
Now dark - now glittering - now reflecting gloom -
Now lending splendor, where from secret springs
The source of human thought its tribute brings
Of waters, - with a sound but half its own,
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume
In the wild woods, amon the mountains lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.

2

Thus thou, Ravine of Arve - dark, deep Ravine-
Thou many-colored, many voiced vale,
Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail
Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down
From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne,
Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame
Of lightning through the tempest; -thou dost lie,
Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,
Children of elder time, in whose devotion
The chainless winds still come and ever came
To drink their odors, and their mighty swinging
To hear - an old and solemn harmony;
Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the sweep
Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil
Robes some unsculptured image; the strange sleep
Which when the voices of the desert fail
Wraps all in its own deep eternity;-
Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion,
A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;
Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,
Thou art the path of that unresting sound-
Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange
To muse on my own separate fantasy,
My own, my human mind, which passively
Now renders and receives fast influencings,
Holding an unremitting interchange
With the clear universe of things around;
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings
Now float above thy darkness, and now rest
Where that or thou art no unbidden guest,
In the still cave of the witch Poesy,
Seeking among the shadows that pass by
Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee,
Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast
From which they fled recalls them, thou art there!

3

Some say that gleams of a remoter world
Visit the soul in sleep,-that death is slumber,
And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber
Of those who wake and live. -I look on high;
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled
The veil of life and death? or do I lie
In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep
Spread far and round and inaccessibly
Its circles? For the very spirit fails,
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep
That vanishes amon the viewless gales!
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,
Mont Blanc appears,-still snowy and serene-
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps;
A desert peopled by the storms alone,
Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone,
And the wolf tracks her there - how hideously
Its shapes are heaped around! rude, bare, and high,
Ghastly, and scarred, and riven. -Is this the scene
Where the old Earthquake-demon taught her young
Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea
Of fire envelop once this silent snow?
None can reply - all seems eternal now.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be,
But for such faith, with nature reconciled;
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal
Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.

4

The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams,
Ocean, and all the living things that dwell
Within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain,
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane,
The torpor of the year when feeble dreams
Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep
Holds every future leaf and flower; -the bound
With which from that detested trance they leap;
The works and ways of man, their death and birth,
And that of him, and all that his may be;
All things that move and breathe with toil and sound
Are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell.
Power dwells apart in its tranquility,
Remote, serene, and inaccessible:
And this, the naked countenance of earth,
On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains
Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep
Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains,
Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice,
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power
Have piled: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,
A city of death, distinct with many a tower
And wall impregnable of beaming ice.
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky
Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing
Its destined path, or in the mangled soil
Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, drawn down
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown
The limits of the dead and living world,
Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil
Their food and their retreat for ever gone,
So much of life and joy is lost. The race
Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream,
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves
Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam,
Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling
Meet in the vale, and one majestic River,
The breath and blood of distant lands , for ever
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves,
Breathes its swift vapors to the circling air.

5

Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:-the power is there,
The still and solemn power of many sights,
And many sounds, and much of life and death.
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend
Upon that mountain; none beholds them there,
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,
Or the star-beams dart through them:-Winds contend
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath
Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes
Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods
Over the snow. The secret Strength of things
Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome
Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee!
And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea,
If to the human mind's imaginings
Silence and solitude were vacancy?

 'Tis strange that in a land so strong 
So strong and bold in mighty youth, 
We have no poet's voice of truth 
To sing for us a wondrous song. 
Our chiefest singer yet has sung 
In wild, sweet notes a passing strain, 
All carelessly and sadly flung 
To that dull world he thought so vain. 

"I care for nothing, good nor bad, 
My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled, 
I am but sifting sand," he said: 
What wonder Gordon's songs were sad! 

And yet, not always sad and hard; 
In cheerful mood and light of heart 
He told the tale of Britomarte, 
And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Garde. 

And some have said that Nature's face 
To us is always sad; but these 
Have never felt the smiling grace 
Of waving grass and forest trees 
On sunlit plains as wide as seas. 

"A land where dull Despair is king 
O'er scentless flowers and songless bird!" 
But we have heard the bell-birds ring 
Their silver bells at eventide, 
Like fairies on the mountain side, 
The sweetest note man ever heard. 

The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth; 
The bronzewing pigeons call and coo 
Beside their nests the long day through; 
The magpie warbles clear and strong 
A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song, 
For all God's mercies upon earth. 

And many voices such as these 
Are joyful sounds for those to tell, 
Who know the Bush and love it well, 
With all its hidden mysteries. 

We cannot love the restless sea, 
That rolls and tosses to and fro 
Like some fierce creature in its glee; 
For human weal or human woe 
It has no touch of sympathy. 

For us the bush is never sad: 
Its myriad voices whisper low, 
In tones the bushmen only know, 
Its sympathy and welcome glad. 
For us the roving breezes bring 
From many a blossum-tufted tree -- 
Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- 
The honey-laden breath of Spring. 

* * * * 

We have our tales of other days, 
Good tales the northern wanderers tell 
When bushmen meet and camp-fires blaze, 
And round the ring of dancing light 
The great, dark bush with arms of night 
Folds every hearer in its spell. 

We have our songs -- not songs of strife 
And hot blood spilt on sea and land; 
But lilts that link achievement grand 
To honest toil and valiant life. 

Lift ye your faces to the sky 
Ye barrier mountains in the west 
Who lie so peacefully at rest 
Enshrouded in a haze of blue; 
'Tis hard to feel that years went by 
Before the pioneers broke through 
Your rocky heights and walls of stone, 
And made your secrets all their own. 

For years the fertile Western plains 
Were hid behind your sullen walls, 
Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls 
All weatherworn with tropic rains. 

Between the mountains and the sea 
Like Israelites with staff in hand, 
The people waited restlessly: 
They looked towards the mountains old 
And saw the sunsets come and go 
With gorgeous golden afterglow, 
That made the West a fairyland, 
And marvelled what that West might be 
Of which such wondrous tales were told. 

For tales were told of inland seas 
Like sullen oceans, salt and dead, 
And sandy deserts, white and wan, 
Where never trod the foot of man, 
Nor bird went winging overhead, 
Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze 
To wake the silence with its breath -- 
A land of loneliness and death. 

At length the hardy pioneers 
By rock and crag found out the way, 
And woke with voices of today 
A silence kept for years and tears. 

Upon the Western slope they stood 
And saw -- a wide expanse of plain 
As far as eye could stretch or see 
Go rolling westward endlessly. 
The native grasses, tall as grain, 
Bowed, waved and rippled in the breeze; 
From boughs of blossom-laden trees 
The parrots answered back again. 
They saw the land that it was good, 
A land of fatness all untrod, 
And gave their silent thanks to God. 

The way is won! The way is won! 
And straightway from the barren coast 
There came a westward-marching host, 
That aye and ever onward prest 
With eager faces to the West, 
Along the pathway of the sun. 

The mountains saw them marching by: 
They faced the all-consuming drought, 
They would not rest in settled land: 
But, taking each his life in hand, 
Their faces ever westward bent 
Beyond the farthest settlement, 
Responding to the challenge cry 
of "better country farther out". 

And lo, a miracle! the land 
But yesterday was all unknown, 
The wild man's boomerang was thrown 
Where now great busy cities stand. 
It was not much, you say, that these 
Should win their way where none withstood; 
In sooth there was not much of blood -- 
No war was fought between the seas. 

It was not much! but we who know 
The strange capricious land they trod -- 
At times a stricken, parching sod, 
At times with raging floods beset -- 
Through which they found their lonely way 
Are quite content that you should say 
It was not much, while we can feel 
That nothing in the ages old, 
In song or story written yet 
On Grecian urn or Roman arch, 
Though it should ring with clash of steel, 
Could braver histories unfold 
Than this bush story, yet untold -- 
The story of their westward march. 

* * * * 

But times are changed, and changes rung 
From old to new -- the olden days, 
The old bush life and all its ways, 
Are passing from us all unsung. 
The freedom, and the hopeful sense 
Of toil that brought due recompense, 
Of room for all, has passed away, 
And lies forgotten with the dead. 
Within our streets men cry for bread 
In cities built but yesterday. 
About us stretches wealth of land, 
A boundless wealth of virgin soil 
As yet unfruitful and untilled! 
Our willing workmen, strong and skilled, 
Within our cities idle stand, 
And cry aloud for leave to toil. 

The stunted children come and go 
In squalid lanes and alleys black: 
We follow but the beaten track 
Of other nations, and we grow 
In wealth for some -- for many, woe. 

And it may be that we who live 
In this new land apart, beyond 
The hard old world grown fierce and fond 
And bound by precedent and bond, 
May read the riddle right, and give 
New hope to those who dimly see 
That all things yet shall be for good, 
And teach the world at length to be 
One vast united brotherhood. 

* * * * 

So may it be! and he who sings 
In accents hopeful, clear, and strong, 
The glories which that future brings 
Shall sing, indeed, a wondrous song.