Poems (Hinxman)/The Old Quarry

by Emmeline Hinxman

THE OLD QUARRY.

In the heart of the wide wood
 The old forsaken quarry lies;
Darksome pines around it brood;
 Oft between it and the skies
Float the heron's lonely wings;
 The dusky badger steals to drink
In its pools and sluggish springs;
 In the weeds that mat its brink
Rolls the she-fox with her young;
 Ancient paths about it wind,
Choked with fern, with brambles hung,
 Hard to follow or to find.
Yet this place, so wild, so still,
 Once with busy echoes rang,
To the chisel tinkling shrill—
 To the hammer's lusty clang—
To the shout or song of men,
 Roll of wheels, and stamp of steed;
For its womb was wealthy then,
 Minister to human need.
Day by day the glistening stone
 From its yielding depths was torn,
That in dark repose had grown
 Since the hour that earth was born.
And without the lonely wood
 Rose a dwelling, strong and fair,
That could mock the winter's flood,
 That could shield from summer's glare.
Then did life, and joy, and love,
 Hasten there to make their nest;
There did mirthful households move,
 There did peaceful households rest.
Rest at night and mirth by day
 In those walls were fostered warm,
While the parent quarry lay
 Visited by frost and storm.

Winter on its dreary breast
 Ever binds his sternest chains,
And with howlings of unrest
 There the lingering blast complains.
Mother Nature o'er it moans,
 Who herself must share its doom,
When the Shrine of living stones
 Has been builded from her womb.

March 9. 1853.