As up the hill and o’er the heath they stray’d,
A curious form beside the hawthorn laid.
A silvery white its outer surface shone;
Its bottom ended in a pointed Cone,
One inch in length; and in the broader Space
Was the faint picture of an human face— 820
Dead to the Eye, but in the hand a Strife
Of waking Nature shew’d the latent Life.
“Now tell me, Maiden, from that silver shape,
What prison’d Beauty shall from hence escape?