The great face was so sad, so earnest, so longing, so patient.

There was a dignity not of earth in its mien, and in its countenance a benignity such as never any thing human wore.

It was stone, but it seemed sentient.

If ever image of stone thought, it was thinking.

It was looking toward the verge of the landscape, yet looking at nothing--nothing but distance and vacancy.
It was looking over and beyond every thing of the present, and far into the past.