A bridle-path in the tangled mallee, With blossoms unnamed and unknown bespread, And two who ride through its leafy alley, But never the sound of a horse's tread. ...
On the snow-line of the summit stood the Spaniard's English slave; And the frighted condor westward flew afar, Where the torch of Cotopaxi2 lit the wide Pacific wave,...
The sunlight from the sky is swept, But, over Snowdon's summit kept, One brand of cloud yet burns, By ghostly hands far out of sight, Held, glowing, in the even-light,...