Wert them a fragment of a Druid pile,

Some glorious throne of early British art?

Some trophy worthy of our rising isle,

Soon from its dull obscurity to start.

Wert thou an altar for a world's respect?

Now the sole remnant of thy fame and sect.

Wert thou a churchyard ornament, to braid

The charnel of putridity, and part

The spot where what was mortal had been laid,

With all thy native coldness in his heart?

Thou sure wert not the stone—let critics cavil!—

Of quack M.D. who lectur'd on the gravel.

Did e'er fat Falstaff, wreathing 'neath his cup

Of glorious sack, unable to reel home,

Sit on thy breast, and give his fancy up,

The all that wine had given pow'r to roam,

And left the mind in gay, but dreamy talk,

Wakeful in wit when legs denied to walk?

Did e'er wise Shakspeare brood upon thy mass,

And whimsey thee to any wondrous use

Of sage forefathers, in his verse to class

That which a worse bard had despis'd to choose,

Unconscious how the meanest objects grow,

Giants of notice in the poet's show?

Canst thou not tell a tale of varied life,

That gave Time's annals their recording name?

No notes of Cade, marching with mischief rife,

By Britain's misery to raise his fame?

Wert thou the hone that "City's Lord" essay'd⁵

To make the whetstone of his rebel blade?

Wert thou—'tis pleasant to imagine it,

Howe'er absurd such notions may be thought—

When the wide heavens, wild with thunder fit,

Huge hailstones to distress the nation wrought,

A mass congeal'd of heaven's artill'ry wain,⁶

A "hailstone chorus" of a Mary's reign?

Or, wert thou part of monumental shrine

Rais'd to a genius, who, for daily bread,

While living, the base world had left to pine,

Only to find his value out when dead?

Say, wert thou any such memento lone,

Of bard who wrote for bread, and got a stone?

How many nations slumber on their deeds.

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.