Dark hills of Mo­ab! fling­ing down
Your sha­dows on this gloomy vale;
Wild chasms! through which des­ert wind
Rushes, in ev­er­last­ing wail.

Mountains of si­lence! keep­ing watch
Above this stag­nant, sull­en wave,
Where sun­shine seems to smile in vain
O’er So­dom’s mel­an­cho­ly grave.

Day’s young­est beau­ty and its last
Bathes your broad fore­heads, stern and bare;
Yet all un­soft­ened is their frown;
No cheer, no love, no beau­ty there.

I may not climb your aw­ful slopes;
Yet, stand­ing on this hun­gry shore,
By this poor reed-brake of the sand,
I count your sha­dows o’er and o’er.

In this lone lake, your an­cient roots
Lie steeped in bit­ter­ness and death;
Your sum­mits rise all ver­dure­less,
Scorched by its hot and hell­ish breath.

Yon sea! its molt­en sil­ver spreads,
And steams in­to the burn­ing air;
Yon sun­light that across it plays,
How sad, and yet how strange­ly fair.

Haunt of old ri­ot and lewd song,
When So­dom spread its splen­dor here;
O sea of wrath, how si­lent now!
The shroud of ci­ties and their bier.

O val­ley of the shade of death!
O sea, of an­cient sin the tomb!
O hills, sin’s hoa­ry mo­nu­ment,
And type of the eter­nal doom!

Well might the pro­phet’s curse have come
From peaks where hor­rors on­ly dwell;
And idol al­tars smoke on cliffs
That seem the ve­ry gates of hell!

And yet ye gaze on Ju­dah’s vales,
Ye hear the rush of Jor­dan’s flood!
Ye looked on Zi­on’s pal­ace hill,
And saw the tem­ple of our God!