Lines written with a Slate-Pencil upon a Stone, c


Stranger! this hillock of misshapen stones
Is not a ruin of the ancient time,
Nor, as perchance, thou rashly deem’st, the Cairn
Of some old British Chief: ’tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome
Or Pleasure-house, once destin’d to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanc’d, Sir William having learn’d
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinish’d task.——
The block on which these lines are trac’d, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of the intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little Builders who dwell here,
Had wonder’d at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight
Bred in this vale, to which he appertain’d
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devis’d
Entire forgiveness!——But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains, if disturb’d
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim mansion destin’d soon to blaze
In snow-white glory, think again, and taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal Slow-worm sun himself,
And let the Red-breast hop from stone to stone.