But, ah! for naught their lungs they strain:
They cry, “Hayloo!” and “stop,”—in vain;
The crowd more anxious, forward press
To catch a glimpse of holiness;
And see what ne’er before was known,
A Reverend Mason lay a stone,
In solemn silence see him stand,
The silver trowel in his hand;
The ponderous mass at his desire,
Descends into the yielding mire;