f 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?_

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.
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.

On a Spanish Cathedral

--
* Every happy expression in these stanzas may fairly be claimed
by the Hon. W. B. Dalley (_Author's note_).
--

Deep under the spires of a hill, by the feet of the thunder-cloud trod,
I pause in a luminous, still, magnificent temple 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 compassionate face;
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