Генри Кендалл (Henry Kendall)

Leaves from Australian Forests (1869). Euroclydon

      On the storm-cloven Cape
         The bitter waves roll,
         With the bergs of the Pole,
   And the darks and the damps of the Northern Sea:
         For the storm-cloven Cape
         Is an alien Shape
   With a fearful face; and it moans, and it stands
         Outside all lands
            Everlastingly!

      When the fruits of the year
         Have been gathered in Spain,
         And the Indian rain
   Is rich on the evergreen lands of the Sun,
         There comes to this Cape
         To this alien Shape,
   As the waters beat in and the echoes troop forth,
         The Wind of the North,
            Euroclydon!

      And the wilted thyme,
         And the patches past
         Of the nettles cast
   In the drift of the rift, and the broken rime,
         Are tumbled and blown
         To every zone
   With the famished glede, and the plovers thinned
         By this fourfold Wind—
            This Wind sublime!

      On the wrinkled hills,
         By starts and fits,
         The wild Moon sits;
   And the rindles fill and flash and fall
         In the way of her light,
         Through the straitened night,
   When the sea-heralds clamour, and elves of the war,
         In the torrents afar,
            Hold festival!

      From ridge to ridge
         The polar fires
         On the naked spires,
   With a foreign splendour, flit and flow;
         And clough and cave
         And architrave
   Have a blood-coloured glamour on roof and on wall,
         Like a nether hall
            In the hells below!

      The dead, dry lips
         Of the ledges, split
         By the thunder fit
   And the stress of the sprites of the forked flame,
         Anon break out,
         With a shriek and a shout,
   Like a hard, bitter laughter, cracked and thin,
         From a ghost with a sin
            Too dark for a name!

      And all thro' the year,
         The fierce seas run
         From sun to sun,
   Across the face of a vacant world!
         And the Wind flies forth
         From the wild, white North,
   That shivers and harries the heart of things,
         And shapes with its wings
            A chaos uphurled!

      Like one who sees
         A rebel light
         In the thick of the night,
   As he stumbles and staggers on summits afar—
         Who looks to it still,
         Up hill and hill,
   With a steadfast hope (though the ways be deep,
         And rough, and steep),
            Like a steadfast star—

      So I, that stand
         On the outermost peaks
         Of peril, with cheeks
   Blue with the salts of a frosty sea,
         Have learnt to wait,
         With an eye elate
   And a heart intent, for the fuller blaze
         Of the Beauty that rays
            Like a glimpse for me—

      Of the Beauty that grows
         Whenever I hear
         The winds of Fear
   From the tops and the bases of barrenness call;
         And the duplicate lore
         Which I learn evermore,
   Is of Harmony filling and rounding the Storm,
         And the marvellous Form
            That governs all!

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