Poems (Hinxman)/The Old Quarry
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 skiesFloat the heron's lonely wings; The dusky badger steals to drinkIn its pools and sluggish springs; In the weeds that mat its brinkRolls 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.