The Mountains of Moab

Dark hills of Mo­ab! fling­ing down

Your sha­dows on this gloomy vale;

Wild chasms! through which des­ert wind

Rushes

in ev­er­last­ing wail.

Mountains of si­lence! keep­ing watch

Above this stag­nant

sull­en wave

Where sun­shine seems to smile in vain

O’er So­dom’s mel­an­cho­ly grave.

Day’s young­est beau­ty and its last

Bathes your broad fore­heads

stern and bare;

Yet all un­soft­ened is their frown;

No cheer

no love

no beau­ty there.

I may not climb your aw­ful slopes;

Yet

stand­ing on this hun­gry shore

By this poor reed-brake of the sand

I count your sha­dows o’er and o’er.

In this lone lake

your an­cient roots

Lie steeped in bit­ter­ness and death;

Your sum­mits rise all ver­dure­less

Scorched by its hot and hell­ish breath.

Yon sea! its molt­en sil­ver spreads

And steams in­to the burn­ing air;

Yon sun­light that across it plays

How sad

and yet how strange­ly fair.

Haunt of old ri­ot and lewd song

When So­dom spread its splen­dor here;

O sea of wrath

how si­lent now!

The shroud of ci­ties and their bier.

O val­ley of the shade of death!

O sea

of an­cient sin the tomb!

O hills

sin’s hoa­ry mo­nu­ment

And type of the eter­nal doom!

Well might the pro­phet’s curse have come

From peaks where hor­rors on­ly dwell;

And idol al­tars smoke on cliffs

That seem the ve­ry gates of hell!

And yet ye gaze on Ju­dah’s vales

Ye hear the rush of Jor­dan’s flood!

Ye looked on Zi­on’s pal­ace hill

And saw the tem­ple of our God!