Tho* Time which leaves thee whole hath rent and worn

Tho* Time which leaves thee whole hath rent and worn
The soul of him who stood and worshipt here,
The weary Waters and the Hills forlorn
Remain the same from silent year to year; —
Despite the sad unrest afar and near,
The cry of Torrents that for ever mourn,
The march of Clouds by winds and lightnings torn,
Here dwells no heritage of human fear!
God keeps His scourge for slaves that pray and cling,
For Clouds and Mists and mortals frail as they, —
The Mountains heed Him not, the Waters fling
His strong Hand back and wave His pride away:
Serene and silent they confront the Thing
Which chilis the flesh and blood of men of clay!