The Soul of Osiris

THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 107 THE MOUNTAIN CHRIST. WORLD of moonlight ! Visionary vale Of ocean-sleeping mountains ! Mighty chasm Within whose wild abyss there chants the pale, The dolorous phantasm Of wrecked white womanhood ! The wizard cold Grips the mute valley in his grasp of gold ! Yonder the hatred of the dismal steep Sweeps up to wrathful thunders, that are curled In billowy menace, as the deadlier deep That menaces the world With breaking foam : so hangs the glacier, rent By giant sunrays, in the frost-grip pent. Yonder again rears up the craggy wall Its cleaving head to heaven : thither I Clomb the vast terrors, where the echoing fall Roars stony from the sky. Thither I pressed at midnight, and the dawn Saw my swift feet move faster than the fawn. Pale seas of blue soft azure lie beyond, Far o’er the gleaming green : the smoke is risen O