I
Leagues upon leagues spread these sun-warmed rocks,
While over my head the breeze swept by,
Grey was it, all grey, yet a grey so clear
That it shone self-lit, like some half-veiled sky.
“Are you rocks, mere rocks, bald earth?” I asked.
“Nay some Titan for sure hath hitherward strayed,
Touched your tops with a god’s own hand,
Over your surface some wild tune played;
Till suddenly, lo! no longer mere rocks,
Spawn of blind forces, dumb things of earth,
But Creatures of Vision, intent, high-planned
Hewn and shaped to a conscious birth.
See how a chisel hath plainly wrought!
Queen of the Arts, with her God-sent gift,
Sculpture herself hath been striving here
Spirit and senses alike to lift.
Or again, up yonder, grey height on height,
Tier above tier and no touch of soil,
Bastion on bastion, solidly planned,
Hewn, one dare swear, with a nation’s toil,
Rightful resort for adventurous men,
See yon portcullis high-perched o’erhead,
From beneath which marched (can we doubt it?) of yore
Fierce fighting septs of a race long dead?”
Heathery, wine-flushed hills in the sun;
Mountainous peaks, bepinnacled, steep;
Vast domes, lost in a dream of snow;
Billowy downs, beloved of sheep;
Dear are you all, yet closer, more dear
Deep in some innermost pucker of soul,
Reign and will reign for me ever these grey hills,
Till coldly and gravely the last tides roll.