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Orellana and Other Poems

By J. Logie Robertson

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VIII. A WATERFALL WITHIN A WOOD.
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VIII. A WATERFALL WITHIN A WOOD.

The sound, that seemed at sunrise—when the glow
Of Morning, mingling with the early breeze,
Caught the still water through the lakeside trees—
The Voice of Liberty, now seems to grow
The muffled moan of an imprisoned woe;
And Fancy, peering through the forest, sees
An agonising Samson on his knees,
With the pines looking on and whispering low.
How does a noise, monotonous and rude,
Take tone, when blown into a poet mind,
Concording with the mystery of its mood,
And suiting with the symphony it designed!
—'Tis but a waterfall within a wood
To Peter Bell and others of his kind.