The Valley
For neither he nor I have ever seen
The lava rushing from the crater's edge.
The rocks cast up like foam;
Though somewhile, as I dreamed amid the green,
I thought I saw, beyond the cypress-hedge.
Those torrents blast my home.
Fire, flood, fierce earthquakes of an elder world,
Red flames and smoke of swirling lava streams.
Tempests of ash and snow.
Whereby the rock I stand upon was hurl'd
Down hither, oft ye haunt, ye haunt my dreams,
O storms of long ago!
That force unchain'd, volcanic, belching fire,
Which shook the mountains then, and filled the coombs
With groaning tongues of flame.
Where is it ? Still, they say, as dread, as dire.
Sprung undiminished from a world of tombs.
It dwells in us the same.
And yet how tranquil sleeps the mountain now!
The water runnels trace their crystal rings
And, thro' the grasses, gleam;
The tawny oxen pull the trident plough
And turn the soil, while soft the farmer sings
To cheer the straining team.
How tranquil smiles the valley, broad and calm!
Those elemental energies of old
Swoon they indeed beneath?
Whisper, O wind, made sweet with musk and balm;
O sunset, rain an influence in thy gold;
Answer, O cirrus-wreath!
Nay, thou shalt be mine answer, vale of rest
That wast so wild and art so beautiful:
Behold, I understand . . .
As waterfalls, that clear the mountain crest
In torrents, fill the runnels clear and full
That nourish all our land;
142
