 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
“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.]
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |