II.—Stennis.
Here on the green marge of the wrinkled lake1
Far-winding snake-like, north, south, east, and west,2
From these grey stones thy Sabbath sermon take,3
And in the lap of hoary memory rest !4
Who framed the cirque, who dug the moat, who sleeps5
’Neath the soft silence of the green old mound6
I shun to ask : Time, the stern warder, keeps7
The key of dateless secrets underground.8
This only know, when early man appeared,9
Scouring the brown heaths of these wind-swept isles,10
He had both thought and thews, and proudly reared11
These gaunt recorders of his brawny toils.12
Like him be thou; and let thy work proclaim13
Thy strength, when Time forgets to spell thy name.14