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by Her side,
all sparkling in its glorious sheen; And, floating swan-like, stately, and
serene, A few light fleecy clouds, the drapery of heav'n, Throw their
pale shadows o'er this witching scene, Deep'ning its mystic
grandeur--and seem driven Round these all shapeless piles like Time's
wan spectres risen
From out the tombs of ages. All around Lies hushed and still, save with
large, dusky wing The bird of night makes its ill-omened sound; Or
moor-game, nestling 'neath th' flowery ling Low chuckle to their
mates--or startled, spring Away on rustling pinions to the sky, Wheel
round and round in many an airy ring, Then swooping downward to
their covert hie, And, lodged beneath the heath again securely lie.
Ascend yon hoary rock's impending brow, And on its windy summit
take your stand-- Lo! Wilsill's lovely vale extends below, And long,
long heathy moors on either hand Stretch dark and misty--a bleak tract
of land, Whereon but seldom human footsteps come; Save when with
dog, obedient at command, And gun, the sportsman quits his city home,
And brushing through the ling in quest of game doth roam.
And lo! in wild confusion scattered round, Huge, shapeless, naked,
massy piles of stone Rise, proudly towering o'er this barren ground,
Scowling in mutual hate--apart, alone, Stern, desolate they stand--and
seeming thrown By some dire, dread convulsion of the earth From her
deep, silent caves, and hoary grown With age and storms that Boreas
issues forth Replete with ire from his wild regions in the north.
How beautiful! yet wildly beautiful, As group on group comes
glim'ring on the eye, Making the heart, soul, mind, and spirit full Of

holy rapture and sweet imagery; Till o'er the lip escapes th' unconscious
sigh, And heaves the breast with feeling, too too deep For words t'
express the awful sympathy, That like a dream doth o'er the senses
creep, Chaining the gazer's eye--and yet he cannot weep.
But stands entranced and rooted to the spot, While grows the scene
upon him vast, sublime, Like some gigantic city's ruin, not Inhabited by
men, but Titans--Time Here rests upon his scythe and fears to climb,
Spent by th' unceasing toil of ages past, Musing he stands and listens to
the chime Of rock-born spirits howling in the blast, While gloomily
around night's sable shades are cast.
Well deemed I ween the Druid sage of old In making this his dwelling
place on high; Where all that's huge and great from Nature's mould,
Spoke this the temple of his deity; Whose walls and roof were the
o'erhanging sky, His altar th' unhewn rock, all bleak and bare, Where
superstition with red, phrensied eye And look all wild, poured forth her
idol prayer, As rose the dying wail,[4] and blazed the pile in air.
Lost in the lapse of time, the Druid's lore Hath ceased to echo these
rude rocks among; No altar new is stained with human gore; No hoary
bard now weaves the mystic song; Nor thrust in wicker hurdles, throng
on throng, Whole multitudes are offered to appease Some angry god,
whose will and power of wrong Vainly they thus essayed to soothe and
please-- Alas! that thoughts so gross man's noblest powers should seize.
But, bowed beneath the cross, see! prostrate fall The mummeries that
long enthralled our isle; So perish error! and wide over all Let reason,
truth, religion ever smile: And let not man, vain, impious man defile
The spark heaven lighted in the human breast; Let no enthusiastic rage,
no sophist's wile Lull the poor victim into careless rest, Since the pure
gospel page can teach him to be blest.
Weak, trifling man, O! come and ponder here Upon the nothingness of
human things-- How vain, how very vain doth then appear The city's
hum, the pomp and pride of kings; All that from wealth, power,
grandeur, beauty springs, Alike must fade, die, perish, be forgot; E'en
he whose feeble hand now strikes the strings Soon, soon within the
silent grave must rot-- Yet Nature's still the same, though we see, we
hear her not.
J. HORNER.
_Wilsill, near Pateley Bridge, Sept. 1829._

[Footnote 3: Yorkshire. This wonderful assemblage lies scattered in
groups, covering a surface of nearly forty acres of heathy moor. The
numerous rocking-stones, rock-idols, altars, cannon rocks, &c.
evidently point out this spot as having been used by the Druids in their
horrid and mysterious ceremonies. The position of some of these rocks
is truly astonishing; one in particular resting upon a base of a few
inches, overhangs on all sides many feet; while others seem suspended
and balanced as if they hung in air.]
[Footnote 4: Human sacrifices formed part of the religious rites of the
Druids.]
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