The all that's left them of their mighty race?
How may heroes' bosoms, wars, and creeds
Have sought in stilly death a resting place,
Since thou first gave thy presence to the air,
Thou, who art looking scarce the worse for wear!
Oft may each wave have travell'd to the shore,
That ends the vasty ocean's unknown sway,
Since thou wert first from earth's remotest pore,
Rais'd as an emblem of man's craft to lay;
Yet those same waves shall dwindle into earth,
Ere, lost in time, we learn thy primal worth.
They tell us "walls have ears"--then why, forsooth,
Hast thou no tongue, like ancient stones of Rome,
To paint the gory days of Britain's youth,
And what thou wert when viler was thy home?
Man makes thy kindred record of his name--
Hast _thou_ no tongue to historize thy fame?
But thou! O, thou hast nothing to repeat!
Lump of mysteriousness, the hand of Time
No early pleasures from thy breast could cheat,
Or witness in decay thine early prime!
Yes, thou didst e'er in stony slumbers lay,
Defying each M'Adam of his day.
Eternity of stone! Time's lasting shrine!
Whose minutes shall by thee unheeded pour!
With whom in still companionship thou'lt twine
The past, the present, shall be evermore,
While innate strength shall shield thee from his hurt,
And worlds remain _stone blind_ to what thou wert.
P.T.
[5] "Now is Mortimer lord of the city."--Vide Shakspeare.
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