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.