Sir John Hanmer (1809–1881)

WE stand upon the Moorish mountain-side,

From age to age, a solemn company;

There are no voices in our paths, but we

Hear the great whirlwinds roaring loud and wide,

And like the sea-waves have our boughs replied,

From the beginning, to their stormy glee;

The thunder rolls above us, and some tree

Smites with his bolt; yet doth the race abide,

Answering all times; but joyous, when the sun

Glints on the peaks that clouds no longer bear;

And the young shoots to flourish have begun;

And the quick seeds through the blue odorous air

From the expanding cones fall one by one;

And silence, as in temples, dwelleth there.