SILBURY HILL.

Grave of Cunedha, were it vain to call

For one wild lay of all that buried lie

Beneath thy giant mound? From Tara's hall

Faint warblings yet are heard, faint echoes die

Among the Hebrides: the ghost that sung

In Ossian's ear, yet wails in feeble cry

On Morvern: but the harmonies that rung

Around the grove and cromlech, never more

Shall visit earth: for ages have unstrung

The Druid's harp, and shrouded all his lore,

Where under the world's ruin sleep in gloom

The secrets of the flood,—the letter'd store,

Which Seth's memorial pillars from the doom

Preserved not, when the sleep was Nature's tomb.