The Judgement of the Flood :: :: University of Virginia Library

Valley of Armon, Vale most beautiful,
Whose verdure is eternal in its bloom;
Skirted with forests wide of oak, and ash;
And graced with waterfall, or mountain flood,
And rock, and cataract, with changes wild,
Yet dear to fancy, and awakening thought.
For, on the mountain's brow, the heroic oak,
With falling cliff,—down from on high in air,
Smit by the thunderbolt, its head in vain
With cloud enwrapt, such havoc to preclude—
A craggy wreck, would, haply, sometimes meet;
And, bowing to the shock, with all his weight
Of mossy bough, and branch, and ample trunk,
Torn from his roots, with crash, and groan descend;
And, from the noisy hill, the foaming floods,
Radiant, and rapid, toward the lake rush on,
Before them driving arm of rock, or tree.
Oft, in the lonely desart of the dark,
The Screech-owls, scared with lightning's angry flame,
Flashed o'er the rocks, scream hideous with affright.

But thou art gentle, Armon, lovely vale:
Why should the wild alone in Armon dwell,
Where peace domestic roosts with pious men?
There hill, and tree do diadem the plain:
Their stately heads in heaven, their feet imbowered
In shade, and arbour, haunt of loving birds:
And lake, and river glass the blue blue sky,
Or lonely star, that not, athwart the vault,
Darts its strange way in fire, at mid of night;

Old Night who, watching from her dusky car,
With terrour sees, and upward looks no more;
But stedfast in its place, and ordered well,
Still brightly on the watery mirrour smiles.
And of all brooks, thine, Armon, is the sweetest—
Whose waters glide as with volition gifted,
And him who bathes in them baptize with power.
—O Armon, mystic stream; and holy, as
The hill, and vale, . . named of thee, thou of them.
And, though sometimes dark shadow cross the hill,
And clouds conceal the sacred sun in heaven,
While tempest flocks foresee, and hide them straight
From threatening ruin; if the blast have not
O'erthrown their tree beloved, or pleasant grove
Of elm, and stately fir, and left them bare
Of shelter, knowing then not where to flee;
More frequent yet, hill, vale, and tree, and grove,
Rejoice in light, and melody, and love.
The sun will o'er the kindling summits peep,
As measuring, at one survey, leisurely,
His journey to the west, ere he commence
Diurnal travel; while, from fields of dew,
The Herds upraise them with the joyous dawn;
Of wood, and grove with gratulation hailed,
Singing, in chorus, anthems unto God.
Oft, by the sound aroused, the lordly Stag
Quits the low brake; and, high upon the plain,
Stands viewing, pleased, the glittering hills afar.
Soon to old Night an uttermost farewell,
Climbing the northern hill; though oft behind
Disdainful scowl she throw on coming Morn—
Her path by the glad Hours with saffron strewed.

O'er Armon's groves the spoken doom impends;
Even now awaits. The hour is nigh at hand.
For them hath vile Azaradel betrayed,
The Land of Eden, and its Rivers four;

That, with Methuselah, chief patriarch,
To him are tributary, lord of earth:
Such lords, then, earth acknowledged. Lamech, now,
For Noah's absence sorrowed; wretched man,
With many wounds, on times of evil fallen,
Still stricken in his soul; in spirit poor,
Debased, and e'er afflicted. Now, apart,
He wept, in his despair. Apart he sate,
Alone; for that he would not, now, unite
In holy Festival; . . which, in the plains
Of Armon hence, beneath the cope of heaven,
Methuselah, with all who own his sway,
In presence of the Ark by Noah built,
With celebration, at autumnal tide,
Hold, for the Harvest-Home—a feast of bread
And wine, and of thanksgivings unto God.

Not in this festival would Lamech join,
Albeit holy, by his grief withheld;
Grief even as holy—a father's for his son.
Old was this sire in years, but older far
In grief; not yet attained eight hundred years—
In that rare time, by near two centuries
Short of extremest age: so long endured
Life's spring, and summer in primeval world.
Dim yet were Lamech's eyes; for they too oft
With tears had been acquainted, to maintain
Their native brightness: his uncurlèd hair
Was over-grey, and on his shoulders drooped
In tresses long; which down his breast he drew,
And mingled with the remnants of his beard;
Shorn of its pomp of hair, a scanty grace.
Silent he sate, low bent; as musing, mute,
Heedless of interruption: and of garb,
Save for one single garment, naked else;
Caring for nought but what was in his mind.
Fast by, as by a tomb reared on a plain,

Did flow the murmuring stream; and bloom around
Green shrub, and bower; and, at high noon, the flocks
From solar heat retire; and, every night,
The lone bird breathe in shades melodious doubt.
Unconscious he of all, in grief intense,
Only these thoughts conceiving—sighs, not words.