Генри Кендалл (Henry Kendall)

Songs from the Mountains (1880). Orara

The strong sob of the chafing stream
 That seaward fights its way
Down crags of glitter, dells of gleam,
 Is in the hills to-day.

But far and faint, a grey-winged form
 Hangs where the wild lights wane—
The phantom of a bygone storm,
 A ghost of wind and rain.

The soft white feet of afternoon
 Are on the shining meads,
The breeze is as a pleasant tune
 Amongst the happy reeds.

The fierce, disastrous, flying fire,
 That made the great caves ring,
And scarred the slope, and broke the spire,
 Is a forgotten thing.

The air is full of mellow sounds,
 The wet hill-heads are bright,
And down the fall of fragrant grounds,
 The deep ways flame with light.

A rose-red space of stream I see,
 Past banks of tender fern;
A radiant brook, unknown to me
 Beyond its upper turn.

The singing, silver life I hear,
 Whose home is in the green,
Far-folded woods of fountains clear,
 Where I have never been.

Ah, brook above the upper bend,
 I often long to stand
Where you in soft, cool shades descend
 From the untrodden land!

Ah, folded woods, that hide the grace
 Of moss and torrents strong,
I often wish to know the face
 Of that which sings your song!

But I may linger, long, and look
 Till night is over all:
My eyes will never see the brook,
 Or sweet, strange waterfall.

The world is round me with its heat,
 And toil, and cares that tire;
I cannot with my feeble feet
 Climb after my desire.

But, on the lap of lands unseen,
 Within a secret zone,
There shine diviner gold and green
 Than man has ever known.

And where the silver waters sing
 Down hushed and holy dells,
The flower of a celestial Spring—
 A tenfold splendour, dwells.

Yea, in my dream of fall and brook
 By far sweet forests furled,
I see that light for which I look
 In vain through all the world—

The glory of a larger sky
 On slopes of hills sublime,
That speak with God and morning, high
 Above the ways of Time!

Ah! haply in this sphere of change
 Where shadows spoil the beam,
It would not do to climb that range
 And test my radiant Dream.

The slightest glimpse of yonder place,
 Untrodden and alone,
Might wholly kill that nameless grace,
 The charm of the unknown.

And therefore, though I look and long,
 Perhaps the lot is bright
Which keeps the river of the song
 A beauty out of sight.

Orara -  A tributary of the river Clarence.

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