William Henry Whitworth

WHENCE and what are ye, or what have ye been?

So the dwarfed pilgrim of the desert sand

Cries, wondering. On Eternity’s lone strand,

Unwept by Time’s dark waters, they are seen

(Each like that giant old of hoar Cyllene

Who propped the starry axle with his hand)

The Caryatides of Heaven, to stand

In calm and noiseless majesty serene.

Ah! not the minions of an idol fane,

But monuments of Hope, ye tower sublime,

To show despairing man his soul shall reign

Immortal, in some bright and glorious clime,

If thus the labors of his hand remain

Triumphant over Death, and Fate, and Time!