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 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
179
INSCRIPTION FOR A MOUNTAIN-DELL
Whoe'er thou art, by love of nature led
These cloud-capped rocks and pathless heights to climb!
Approach this dell with reverential dread,
Where, bosomed deep in solitudes sublime,
Repose the secrets of primeval time.
But if thy mind degenerate cares degrade,
Or sordid hopes convulse, or conscious crime,
Fly to the sunless glen's more genial shade,
Nor with unhallowed steps this haunted ground invade.
These cloud-capped rocks and pathless heights to climb!
Approach this dell with reverential dread,
Where, bosomed deep in solitudes sublime,
Repose the secrets of primeval time.
But if thy mind degenerate cares degrade,
Or sordid hopes convulse, or conscious crime,
Fly to the sunless glen's more genial shade,
Nor with unhallowed steps this haunted ground invade.
Here sleeps a bard of long-forgotten years:
Nameless he sleeps, to all the world unknown:
His humble praise no proud memorial bears:
Remote from man, he lived and died alone.
Placed by no earthly hand, one mossy stone
Yet marks the sod where his cold ashes lie.
Across that sod one lonely oak has thrown
Its tempest-shattered branches, old and dry;
And one perennial stream runs lightly-murmuring by.
Nameless he sleeps, to all the world unknown:
His humble praise no proud memorial bears:
Remote from man, he lived and died alone.
Placed by no earthly hand, one mossy stone
Yet marks the sod where his cold ashes lie.
Across that sod one lonely oak has thrown
Its tempest-shattered branches, old and dry;
And one perennial stream runs lightly-murmuring by.
He loved this dell, a solitary child,
And placed that oak, an acorn, in the sod:
And here, full oft, in hermit-visions wild,
In scenes by every other step untrod,
With nature he conversed, and nature's god.
He fled from superstition's murderous fane,
And shunned the slaves of Circe's baleful rod,
The mean, malignant, mercenary train,
That feed at Moloch's shrine the unholy fires of gain.
And placed that oak, an acorn, in the sod:
180
In scenes by every other step untrod,
With nature he conversed, and nature's god.
He fled from superstition's murderous fane,
And shunned the slaves of Circe's baleful rod,
The mean, malignant, mercenary train,
That feed at Moloch's shrine the unholy fires of gain.
The stream, that murmured by his favorite stone,
The breeze, that rustled through his youthful tree,
To fancy sung, in sweetly-mingled tone,
Of future joys, which fate forbade to be.
False as the calm of summer's treacherous sea
Is beauty's smile, in magic radiance drest.
Far from that fatal shore, fond wanderer, flee!
Rocks lurk beneath the ocean's limpid breast,
And, deep in caves of night, storms darkly-brooding rest.
The breeze, that rustled through his youthful tree,
To fancy sung, in sweetly-mingled tone,
Of future joys, which fate forbade to be.
False as the calm of summer's treacherous sea
Is beauty's smile, in magic radiance drest.
Far from that fatal shore, fond wanderer, flee!
Rocks lurk beneath the ocean's limpid breast,
And, deep in caves of night, storms darkly-brooding rest.
Love poured the storm that wrecked his youthful prime:
Beneath his favorite tree his bones were laid:
Through rolling ages towered its strength sublime,
Ordained, unseen, to flourish and to fade.
Its mossy boughs, now sapless and decayed,
Fall in the blast, and moulder in the shower:
Yet be the stately wreck with awe surveyed,
Sad monument of time's unsparing power,
That shakes the marble dome, and adamantine tower.
Beneath his favorite tree his bones were laid:
Through rolling ages towered its strength sublime,
Ordained, unseen, to flourish and to fade.
Its mossy boughs, now sapless and decayed,
Fall in the blast, and moulder in the shower:
Yet be the stately wreck with awe surveyed,
Sad monument of time's unsparing power,
That shakes the marble dome, and adamantine tower.
181
Such was the oak, from whose prophetic shell
Breathed the primeval oracles of Greece:
And here, perhaps, his gentle shade may dwell,
Diffusing tenderness and heavenly peace,
Of power to bid the rage of passion cease,
When some fond youth, capricious beauty's slave,
Seeking from care in solitude release,
Shall sit upon the minstrel's lonely grave,
And hear through withered boughs the mountain-breezes rave.
Breathed the primeval oracles of Greece:
And here, perhaps, his gentle shade may dwell,
Diffusing tenderness and heavenly peace,
Of power to bid the rage of passion cease,
When some fond youth, capricious beauty's slave,
Seeking from care in solitude release,
Shall sit upon the minstrel's lonely grave,
And hear through withered boughs the mountain-breezes rave.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |