“Stone !did the hand of sacerdotal fraud
Shape thee into this vital type of things,
Or did a million winters, on their wings
Of sythe-like perseverence come abroad
To bid conjecture stand before thee awed,
And, almost severing thee from present earth,
Make thee a marvel? Vainly giv’st thou birth
To solomn fancies, building an abode
Around thee, for a world of shapeless ghosts;
Vainly they rise before me, calling up
Kings and their masters, and imagined hosts,
That fight for clouds. What then! the heath-flower’s cup
With dewdrops feeds this fountain ever dear
And the winged ouzel whistles “God is here!”
By Ebenezer Elliot , the Corn-law Rhymer.
from his sonnet The Rock Idol at Brimham