So hath the effulgent ether indurated
The slot of horse-hoofs and the track of wheels;
And now, and now, the spirit no longer spent
In ease that overtops itself, takes grace,
Cleansed by the sweat of that divine ascent,
Exulting in the harsh unshaded place.
For here where God hath been so hard to shackle
The martyred earth He hath His first acclaim,
Still the parched flowers burn round His tabernacle,
The unwatered hills are vocal with His Name.