MARK the concentred hazels that enclose br Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray br Of noontide suns:--and even the beams that play br And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows, br Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows br Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, br The very image framing of a Tomb, br In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose br Among the lonely mountains.--Live, ye trees! br And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep br Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep: br For more than Fancy to the influence bends br When solitary Nature condescends br To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.