Mount from the earth; aspire! aspire ! While incense from the altar breathes Not wasted on the attendant crowd, Alas! the sanctities combined And humours change, are spurned like weeds : The priests are from their altars thrust ; Temples are levelled with the dust ; And solemn rites and awful forms Yet evermore, through years renewed Of seasons balancing their flight Where flower-breathed incense to the skies And ground fresh-cloven by the plough INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE IN THE GROUNDS OF RYDAL MOUNT. IN these fair vales hath many a Tree At Wordsworth's suit been spared; Was rescued by the Bard. |