The Tomb Of Love
By the mossy weed-flowered column,
by Thomas Love Peacock
Where the setting moonbeam's glance
Streams a radiance cold and solemn
On the haunts of old romance:
Know'st thou what those shafts betoken,
Scattered on that tablet lone,
Where the ivory bow lies broken
By the monumental stone?
When true knighthood's shield, neglected,
Mouldered in the empty hall;
When the charms that shield protected
Slept in death's eternal thrall;
When chivalric glory perished
Like the pageant of a dream,
Love in vain its memory cherished,
Fired in vain the minstrel's theme.
Falsehood to an elvish minion
Did the form of Love impart:
Cunning plumed its vampire pinion;
Avarice tipped its golden dart.
Love, the hideous phantom flying,
Hither came, no more to rove:
There his broken bow is Iying
On that stone the tomb of Love!