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Poem by Robert Southey
For a Tablet at Silbury Hill
THIS mound, in some remote and dateless day Reared o’er a chieftain of the age of hills, May here detain thee, traveller! from thy road Not idly lingering. In his narrow house Some warrior sleeps below, whose gallant deeds Haply at many a solemn festival The scald hath sung; but perished is the song Of praise, as o’er these bleak and barren downs The wind that passes and is heard no more. Go, traveller, and remember, when the pomp Of earthly glory fades, that one good deed, Unseen, unheard, unnoted by mankind, Lives in the eternal register of heaven.
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