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 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
287
VERSE FRAGMENTS
“FAREWELL, MY SON”
“Farewell, my son”: the Prior said:
“'Twas slighted love for a mortal maid,
That brought thee to this holy shrine;
And not the love of Saint Katharine.”
“'Twas slighted love for a mortal maid,
That brought thee to this holy shrine;
And not the love of Saint Katharine.”
The youth in silence turned away,
Long arid vales before him lay
Vast level tracts of burning sand
Deep sunk 'twixt rocks on either hand
Gigantic rocks of granite red
Each rearing high its crested head
Summit to summit following nigh
Like waves about to burst on high
Resembling ocean's stormy tide
Suddenly checked and petrified
Long arid vales before him lay
Vast level tracts of burning sand
Deep sunk 'twixt rocks on either hand
Gigantic rocks of granite red
Each rearing high its crested head
Summit to summit following nigh
Like waves about to burst on high
Resembling ocean's stormy tide
Suddenly checked and petrified
[MS. ends here.]
288
“WELL, WE HAVE LOVED”
Well, we have loved, and that is past;
'Tis certain we shall love no more:
The light which youth around us cast
Time's colder hand will ne'er restore:
Joys have we known—but they are o'er—
They never can be ours again;
Yet better so than to deplore
Youth's power to bless possessed in vain.
'Tis certain we shall love no more:
The light which youth around us cast
Time's colder hand will ne'er restore:
Joys have we known—but they are o'er—
They never can be ours again;
Yet better so than to deplore
Youth's power to bless possessed in vain.
We have been happy: that at least
Was something, though 'tis nothing now
Was something, though 'tis nothing now
[MS. ends here.]
“OH WOULD THAT TRUTH”
Oh would that truth and common sense
Might chace congenial quackery hence,
That so all forms of false pretence
Might vanish from our isle:
Might chace congenial quackery hence,
That so all forms of false pretence
Might vanish from our isle:
But every day before our eyes
New forms of mountebankery rise,
And as one folly flies or dies
Another fills the void.
New forms of mountebankery rise,
And as one folly flies or dies
Another fills the void.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |