Piled on the lofty peaks of rugged Tors,
Strewn down the smooth hill-slope and river-side,
Scattered upon the lone and dreary moors,
These ponderous mammoth forms for aye abide.
Their cold gray hue at dawn's first livid beam
Is bathed in golden light as hours roll on,
And all bedecked they glow with purple gleam
When sunset warns us that the day is done.
As twilight fades, their outlines seem to change,
And some appear to float on misty sea;
Fantastic monsters take new forms, more strange,
And scare belated wanderers on the lea.
Just after nightfall, black and dim they rise,
From shadowy depths of gloom and mystery,[1]
Looming like spectral gnomes of giant size,[2]
Shapeless and vague against the boding sky.
On yonder height a nodding mass appears,[3]
Crowning the rocky battlement so vast;
Many a rude monolith itself uprears,[4]
Bidding defiance to the angry blast.
Wild legends hang about these time-worn stones;
Some of them move—at dead of night—they say;[5]
Others do sigh and utter troubled moans,
As evil spirits near them wend their way.
Some possess virtue—so 'tis even thought—
To grant release from sickness, woe, and pain;[6]
Whilst other stones such mystic spells have wrought,
That envious crags have reft themselves in twain!
Many were poised by Incantation's charm,[7]
Some by the Giants fiercely have been flung![8]
Others were wielded by some saintly arm,[9]
In days when power was great, and faith was young.
When midnight shrouds the mountains from our view,
The phantom Huntsman's hounds are heard to bay;
Unearthly goblins shriek their last adieu,
While myriad corpse-lights glimmer on their way.
There stands a group of death-struck impious folk[10]
Just as they circled, so they must remain,
Bound by a stony spell—until awoke
To judgment in their flesh and blood again.