The Tomb of Love

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By the mossy weed-flowered column,
 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!

© Thomas Love Peacock