To mar some vigil these grave giants keep.
Here only mountain incense seeming fills
The lofty arches, by sea-wind unbent,
That rise as if with height still nobler blent:
Some peak, cloud-piercing, 'mid the sunlit hills
Whose glamour holds us fast, whose blossoms lie
The darkness of the broken rocks amid,
Whose written speech in these lithe ferns is hid,
Whose forests whisper in the winds’ low sigh.
Should any bird this inland silence break,