P R E F A C E.

He knows nothing; then he turns back again,
And looks and sighs, and then admires it all over again,
And within himself, he sorrowfully complains
About the misery of dark forgetfulness.
He is angry with time, because nothing remains
To explain the wonder of our greatest wonders.

Then ignorance, with mythical original: "fabulous" stories,
Robbing beautiful art and skill original: "cunning" of their rightful credit,
Tells how those stones were, by the devil's power,
Brought from Africa to Ireland in a single night;
And from there to Britain, by a magical path,
Taken from the hands of giants by Merlin's trickery original: "sleight".

And then placed near Amesbury original: "Ambry" in memory
Of all those noble Britons murdered there
By Hengist and his treacherous Saxons,
Who came to negotiate original: "parle" in peace, catching them off guard.
With this old legend, then, gullibility original: "credulity"
Is satisfied and stops searching for the truth.

And as for you, you huge and mighty structure,
Who stands so damaged by the spite of time,
And provides no evidence to preserve the fame
Of those who placed you there and proved their right;
You have become a traitor to their names,
Even though they trusted you with everything they had.

You shall stand, continually misrepresented original: "belyed" and slandered,
Nothing but a curiosity for the ignorant to stare at;
And by your failure original: "guilt", the wise—now warned—
Will never again desire to build such massive piles,
Nor trust their living glory to the dead,
Who cannot speak, but leave their fame to chance.

Though time, with all the power of his years, has launched
A long assault original: "battery", backed by the erosion of age,
Yet you resist, relying only on your own strength,
And wage war against his all-conquering forces;
Claiming a heavenly right original: "prescription" to be free,
And a permit to last as long as time itself.