Stanza Found at Peel Castle, Among the Ruins.

Stranger, or ere thou dost depart
Peruse this simple lay,
Then print its lessons on thy heart,
And read them night and day.

Art learn’d? – thy love’s not worth a groat,
Nor all thy book bestow,
If thou should’st still have to be taught –
That thou dost nothing know!

Art proud? – alas! So once was I,
I, too, was proud like thee –
Till chasten’d by the hand on high,
As thou may’st one day be.

Art rich? – What homage, thou can’st tell,
To wealth and power isshewn;
Prosperity in crowds doth dwell –
Adversity – alone!

Art old? – Wht then with hasty stride,
Death cloth the pit prepare,
The grave – the grave, is opening wide,
For thee, my friend – BEWARE!

Be at thy post, and watch keep still,
Though but of middle age,
For time rolls rapidly downhill
When at the half-way stage.

Hope waits on Youth, and tells her where
Immortal roses bloom;
But leaves old Age to dark despair,
And to the silent tomb.

Taste not of pleasure’s poisoned cup,
Avoid the subtle snare;
Nay, touch it not, if thou dost hope
The joys of Heaven to share.

And so shall Peace thy portion be,
And all thy labours bless;
VIRTUE ALONE – learn this of me,
Is perfect happiness!

If thou dost beg from door to door,
By adverse fortune tried,
Thou shalt not be accounted poor,
If Virtue is thy guide!

Then cling to her, hold firm and fast,
Thy steadfast friend and true;
What though on rocks and breakers cast,
Trust her, she’ll bear thee through.

Art beautiful? – go, mark that faded rose,
By winters breath laid bare;
That flower, thy perfect picture shows,
Behold thy likeness there!

I dwell among these ruins grey,
The world I little know,
I love not its attractions gay,
Nor aught it can bestow.

High Heaven is my canopy,
The velvet turf my bed;
The glow-worm at my foot doth lie,
The stars burn o’er my head!

And when old Time these bones shall crave,
Commission’d from on high,
With my own hands I’ll dig my grave,
Then lay me down to die!

Art brave? – then let it now appear,
Attend to what I say –
The treasures of the East lie here,
Hid from the light of day!

Would’st thou be rich? – then take this sword,
Descend that ruined stair,
But mark me – utter not a word –
There lies the fortune – THERE!

‘Tis buried low beneath the ground,
In everlasting night,
Close guarded by a “Spectre Hound”,
Which barks but cannot bite!

Dost fear? – Alas! Thou’rt deadly pale –
Why comrade dost not speak?
‘Tis haply but a monkish tale,
To blanch the coward’s cheek.

Though there the sun be never seen,
To dart his dazzling rays,
Of gorgeous gems, blue, red and green,
‘Tis one ETERNAL BLAZE!

I told thee that I scorn the world,
And wealth and power despise;
From fortune’s top – most height I’m hurled,
Never again to rise!

And who I am now matters not,
No monument I crave;
My ALL lies buried on that spot,
And yonder is my grave!

If e’re thou would’st in Heaven be heard,
And at its throne would’st kneel,
Remember thou the Castle Bard,
The ancient Bard of Peel!

(In Mrs. John Ballentyne, 1832).