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