Classic Poem

But ye, — ye Hills that gather round this day,
Ye Mountains, and ye Vapours, and ye Waves,
Ye will attest the wrongs of men of clay,
When, in a World all hush'd, sits on our graves
The melancholy Maker. From your caves
Strange echoes of our old lost life shall come;
With still eyes fixed on your vast architraves,
Nature shall speak, though mortal lips be dumb.
Then God will cry: " Sadly the Waters fall,
Sadly the Mountains keep their snowy state,
The Clouds pass on, the Winds and Echoes call,
The World is sweet, yet wearily I wait.
Though all is fair, and I am Lord of all,
Without my Children I am desolate."