CCXIII
THE DESOLATE VALLEY Far up among the forest-belted mountains,
Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey,
Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountains
To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay,
A valley opens to the noontide ray,
With green savannahs shelving to the brim
Of the swift river, sweeping on its way
To where UmtÓka tries to meet with him,
Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.
There, couched at night in hunter’s wattled shieling,
How wildly-beautiful it was to hear
The elephant his shrill reveillÉ pealing,
Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear!
While the broad midnight moon was shining clear,
How fearful to look forth upon the woods,
And see those stately forest-kings appear,
Emerging from their shadowy solitudes—
As if that trump had woke Earth’s old gigantic broods!
Look round that vale! behold the unburied bones
Of Ghona’s children withering in the blast!
The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans,
Whispers—‘The spirit hath for ever passed!’
Thus, in the vale of desolation vast,
In moral death dark Afric’s myriads lie;
But the appointed day shall dawn at last,
When, breathed on by a spirit from on high,
The dry bones shall awake, and shout—
‘Our God is nigh!’
|
  |
