Arakoon
—* A promontory on the coast of New South Wales.—
Lo! in storms, the triple-headedHill, whose dreadedBases battle with the seas,Looms across fierce widths of fleetingWaters beatingEvermore on roaring leas!
Arakoon, the black, the lonely!Housed with onlyCloud and rain-wind, mist and damp;Round whose foam-drenched feet and netherDepths, togetherSullen sprites of thunder tramp!
There the East hums loud and surly,Late and early,Through the chasms and the caves,And across the naked vergesLeap the surges!White and wailing waifs of waves.
Day by day the sea-fogs gathered—Tempest-fathered—Pitch their tents on yonder peak,Yellow drifts and fragments lyingWhere the flyingTorrents chafe the cloven creek!
And at nightfall, when the drivenBolts of heavenSmite the rock and break the bluff,Thither troop the elves whose home isWhere the foam is,And the echo and the clough.
Ever girt about with noises,Stormy voices,And the salt breath of the Strait,Stands the steadfast Mountain Giant,Grim, reliant,Dark as Death, and firm as Fate.
So when trouble treads, like thunder,Weak men under—Treads and breaks the thews of these—Set thyself to bear it bravely,Greatly, gravely,Like the hill in yonder seas;
Since the wrestling and enduranceGive assuranceTo the faint at bay with pain,That no soul to strong endeavourYoked for ever,Works against the tide in vain.