The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• Contributions to the Edinburgh Review.
• Sadler’s Law of Population. (july 1830.)
• Sadler’s Refutation Refuted. (january 1831.)
• Mirabeau. (july 1832.)
• BarÈre. (april 1844.)
• Contributions to the EncyclopÆdia Britannica.
• Francis Atterbury. (december 1853.)
• John Bunyan. (may 1854.)
• Oliver Goldsmith. (february 1856.)
• Samuel Johnson. (december 1856.)
• William Pitt. (january 1859.)
• Miscellaneous Poems, Inscriptions, Etc.
• Translation From Plautus. (1850.)
• Paraphrase of a Passage In the Chronicle of the Monk of St. Gall. (1856.)
• Inscription On the Statue of Lord Wm. Bentinck. At Calcutta. (1835.)
• Epitaph On Sir Benjamin Heath Malkin. At Calcutta. 1837.
• Epitaph On Lord Metcalfe. (1847.)

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, INSCRIPTIONS, ETC.

EPITAPH ON HENRY MARTYN. (1812.)

• Here Martyn lies. In Manhood’s early bloom
• The Christian Hero finds a Pagan tomb.
• Religion, sorrowing o’er her favourite son,
• Points to the glorious trophies that he won.
• Eternal trophies! not with carnage red,
• Not stained with tears by hapless captives shed,
• But trophies of the Cross! for that dear name,
• Through every form of danger, death, and shame,
• Onward he journeyed to a happier shore,
• Where danger, death, and shame assault no more.

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF PITT. (1813.)

• • Oh Britain! dear Isle, when the annals of story
  • Shall tell of the deeds that thy children have done,
  • When the strains of each poet shall sing of their glory,
  • And the triumphs their skill and their valour have won;
• • When the olive and palm in thy chaplet are blended,
  • When thy arts, and thy fame, and thy commerce increase,
  • When thy arms through the uttermost coasts are extended,
  • And thy war is triumphant, and happy thy peace;
• • When the ocean, whose waves like a rampart flow round thee,
  • Conveying thy mandates to every shore,
  • And the empire of nature no longer can bound thee,
  • And the world be the scene of thy conquests no more:
• • Remember the man who in sorrow and danger,
  • When thy glory was set, and thy spirit was low,
  • When thy hopes were o’erturned by the arms of the stranger,
  • And thy banners displayed in the halls of the foe,
• • Stood forth in the tempest of doubt and disaster,
  • Unaided, and single, the danger to brave,
  • Asserted thy claims, and the rights of his master,
  • Preserved thee to conquer, and saved thee to save.

A RADICAL WAR SONG. (1820.)

• • Awake, arise, the hour is come,
  • For rows and revolutions;
  • There’s no receipt like pike and drum
  • For crazy constitutions.
  • Close, close the shop! Break, break the loom,
  • Desert your hearths and furrows,
  • And throng in arms to seal the doom
  • Of England’s rotten boroughs.
• • We’ll stretch that tort’ring Castlereagh
  • On his own Dublin rack, sir;
  • We’ll drown the King in Eau de vie,
  • The Laureate in his sack, sir,
  • Old Eldon and his sordid hag
  • In molten gold we’ll smother,
  • And stifle in his own green bag
  • The Doctor and his brother.
• • In chains we’ll hang in fair Guildhall
  • The City’s famed Recorder,
  • And next on proud St. Stephen’s fall,
  • Though Wynne should squeak to order.
  • In vain our tyrants then shall try
  • To ’scape our martial law, sir;
  • In vain the trembling Speaker cry
  • That “Strangers must withdraw,” sir.
• • Copley to hang offends no text;
  • A rat is not a man, sir:
  • With schedules and with tax bills next
  • We’ll bury pious Van, sir.
  • The slaves who loved the Income Tax,
  • We’ll crush by scores, like mites, sir,
  • And him, the wretch who freed the blacks,
  • And more enslaved the whites, sir.
• • The peer shall dangle from his gate,
  • The bishop from his steeple,
  • Till all recanting, own, the State
  • Means nothing but the People.
  • We’ll fix the church’s revenues
  • On Apostolic basis,
  • One coat, one scrip, one pair of shoes
  • Shall pay their strange grimaces.
• • We’ll strap the bar’s deluding train
  • In their own darling halter,
  • And with his big church bible brain
  • The parson at the altar.
  • Hail glorious hour, when fair Reform
  • Shall bless our longing nation,
  • And Hunt receive commands to form
  • A new administration.
• • Carlisle shall sit enthroned, where sat
  • Our Cranmer and our Secker;
  • And Watson show his snow-white hat
  • In England’s rich Exchequer.
  • The breast of Thistlewood shall wear
  • Our Wellesley’s star and sash, man;
  • And many a mausoleum fair
  • Shall rise to honest Cashman.
• • Then, then beneath the nine-tailed cat
  • Shall they who used it writhe, sir;
  • And curates lean, and rectors fat,
  • Shall dig the ground they tithe, sir.
  • Down with your Bayleys, and your Bests,
  • Your Giffords, and your Gurneys:
  • We’ll clear the island of the pests,
  • Which mortals name attorneys.
• • Down with your sheriffs, and your mayors,
  • Your registrars, and proctors,
  • We’ll live without the lawyer’s cares,
  • And die without the doctor’s.
  • No discontented fair shall pout
  • To see her spouse so stupid;
  • We’ll tread the torch of Hymen out,
  • And live content with Cupid.
• • Then, when the high-born and the great
  • Are humbled to our level,
  • On all the wealth of Church and State,
  • Like aldermen, we’ll revel.
  • We’ll live when hushed the battle’s din,
  • In smoking and in cards, sir,
  • In drinking unexcised gin,
  • And wooing fair Poissardes, sir.

THE BATTLE OF MONCONTOUR. (1824.)

• • Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour
  • When the children of darkness and evil had power,
  • When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod
  • On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.
• • Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain,
  • Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain;
  • Oh, weep for the living, who linger to bear
  • The renegade’s shame, or the exile’s despair.
• • One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers,
  • To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers,
  • To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,
  • Where we fondly had deemed that our own would be laid.
• • Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
  • To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome,
  • To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,
  • To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.
• • Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
  • To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids,
  • To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
  • And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.
• • Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave
  • May rule in the halls of the free and the brave.
  • Our hearths we abandon; our lands we resign;
  • But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON’S REGIMENT. (1824.)

• • Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
  • With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
  • And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
  • And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
• • Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
  • And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
  • For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
  • Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.
• • It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,
  • That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,
  • And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
  • And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
• • Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
  • The General rode along us to form us to the fight,
  • When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell’d into a shout,
  • Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.
• • And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
  • The cry of battle rises along their charging line!
  • For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!
  • For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!
• • The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
  • His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;
  • They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;
  • For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.
• • They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!
  • Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.
  • O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
  • Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.
• • Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:
  • Hark! hark! — What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?
  • Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.
  • Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.
• • Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
  • Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,
  • Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,
  • And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
• • Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
  • Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:
  • And he — he turns, he flies: — shame on those cruel eyes
  • That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.
• • Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,
  • First give another stab to make your search secure,
  • Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
  • The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
• • Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,
  • When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans today;
  • And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,
  • Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.
• • Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,
  • And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,
  • Your perfum’d satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,
  • Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?
• • Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown,
  • With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;
  • There is woe in Oxford Halls: there is wail in Durham’s Stalls:
  • The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.
• • And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,
  • And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s, sword;
  • And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear
  • What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD. (1825.)

• • Let pious Damon take his seat,
  • With mincing step, and languid smile,
  • And scatter from his ’kerchief sweet,
  • Sabæan odours o’er the aisle;
  • And spread his little jewelled hand,
  • And smile round all the parish beauties,
  • And pat his curls, and smooth his band,
  • Meet prelude to his saintly duties.
• • Let the thronged audience press and stare,
  • Let stifled maidens ply the fan,
  • Admire his doctrines, and his hair,
  • And whisper “What a good young man!”
  • While he explains what seems most clear,
  • So clearly that it seems perplexed,
  • I’ll stay, and read my sermon here;
  • And skulls, and bones, shall be the text.
• • Art thou the jilted dupe of fame?
  • Dost thou with jealous anger pine
  • Whene’er she sounds some other name,
  • With fonder emphasis than thine?
  • To thee I preach; draw near; attend!
  • Look on these bones, thou fool, and see
  • Where all her scorns and favours end,
  • What Byron is, and thou must be.
• • Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust
  • Some clod like those that here we spurn;
  • Some thing that sprang like thee from dust,
  • And shall like thee to dust return?
  • Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits,
  • At one sear leaf, or wandering feather?
  • Behold the black, damp, narrow pits,
  • Where they and thou must lie together.
• • Dost thou beneath the smile or frown
  • Of some vain woman bend thy knee?
  • Here take thy stand, and trample down
  • Things that were once as fair as she.
  • Here rave of her ten thousand graces,
  • Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin,
  • While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces
  • Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin.
• • Whate’er thy losses or thy gains,
  • Whate’er thy projects or thy fears,
  • Whate’er the joys, whate’er the pains,
  • That prompt thy baby smiles and tears;
  • Come to my school, and thou shalt learn,
  • In one short hour of placid thought,
  • A stoicism, more deep, more stern,
  • Than ever Zeno’s porch hath taught.
• • The plots and feats of those that press
  • To seize on titles, wealth, or power,
  • Shall seem to thee a game of chess,
  • Devised to pass a tedious hour.
  • What matters it to him who fights
  • For shows of unsubstantial good,
  • Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights,
  • Be things of flesh, or things of wood?
• • We check, and take; exult, and fret;
  • Our plans extend, our passions rise,
  • Till in our ardour we forget
  • How worthless is the victor’s prize.
  • Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night:
  • Say will it not be then the same,
  • Whether we played the black or white,
  • Whether we lost or won the game?
• • Dost thou among these hillocks stray,
  • O’er some dear idol’s tomb to moan?
  • Know that thy foot is on the clay
  • Of hearts once wretched as thy own.
  • How many a father’s anxious schemes,
  • How many rapturous thoughts of lovers,
  • How many a mother’s cherished dreams,
  • The swelling turf before thee covers!
• • Here for the living, and the dead,
  • The weepers and the friends they weep,
  • Hath been ordained the same cold bed,
  • The same dark night, the same long sleep;
  • Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave
  • O’er those, with whom thou soon must be?
  • Death his own sting shall cure — the grave
  • Shall vanquish its own victory.
• • Here learn that all the griefs and joys,
  • Which now torment, which now beguile,
  • Are children’s hurts, and children’s toys,
  • Scarce worthy of one bitter smile.
  • Here learn that pulpit, throne, and press,
  • Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail,
  • That science is a blind man’s guess,
  • And History a nurse’s tale.
• • Here learn that glory and disgrace,
  • Wisdom and folly, pass away,
  • That mirth hath its appointed space,
  • That sorrow is but for a day;
  • That all we love, and all we hate,
  • That all we hope, and all we fear,
  • Each mood of mind, each turn of fate,
  • Must end in dust and silence here.

TRANSLATION FROM A. V. ARNAULT

Fables: Livre v., Fable 16. (1826.)

• Thou poor leaf, so sear and frail,
• Sport of every wanton gale,
• Whence, and whither, dost thou fly,
• Through this bleak autumnal sky?
• On a noble oak I grew,
• Green, and broad, and fair to view;
• But the Monarch of the shade
• By the tempest low was laid.
• From that time, I wander o’er
• Wood, and valley, hill, and moor,
• Wheresoe’er the wind is blowing,
• Nothing caring, nothing knowing:
• Thither go I, whither goes,
• Glory’s laurel, Beauty’s rose.

• —De ta tige détachée,
• Pauvre feuille desséchée
• Où vas-tu?—Je n’en sais rien.
• L’orage a frappé le chêne
• Qui seul etait mon soutien.
• De son inconstante haleine,
• Le zéphyr ou l’aquilon
• Depuis ce jour me promène
• De la forêt à la plaine,
• De la montagne au vallon.
• Je vais où le vent me mène,
• Sans me plaindre ou m’effrayer,
• Je vais où va toute chose,
• Où va la feuille de rose
• Et la feuille de laurier.

DIES IRÆ. (1826.)

• On that great, that awful day,
• This vain world shall pass away.
• Thus the sibyl sang of old,
• Thus hath Holy David told.
• There shall be a deadly fear
• When the Avenger shall appear,
• And unveiled before his eye
• All the works of man shall lie.
• Hark! to the great trumpet’s tones
• Pealing o’er the place of bones:
• Hark! it waketh from their bed
• All the nations of the dead, —
• In a countless throng to meet,
• At the eternal judgment seat.
• Nature sickens with dismay,
• Death may not retain his prey;
• And before the Maker stand
• All the creatures of his hand.
• The great book shall be unfurled,
• Whereby God shall judge the world:
• What was distant shall be near,
• What was hidden shall be clear.
• To what shelter shall I fly?
• To what guardian shall I cry?
• Oh, in that destroying hour,
• Source of goodness, Source of power,
• Show thou, of thine own free grace,
• Help unto a helpless race.
• Though I plead not at thy throne
• Aught that I for thee have done,
• Do not thou unmindful be,
• Of what thou hast borne for me:
• Of the wandering, of the scorn,
• Of the scourge, and of the thorn.
• Jesus, hast thou borne the pain,
• And hath all been borne in vain?
• Shall thy vengeance smite the head
• For whose ransom thou hast bled?
• Thou, whose dying blessing gave
• Glory to a guilty slave:
• Thou, who from the crew unclean
• Dids’t release the Magdalene:
• Shall not mercy vast and free,
• Evermore be found in thee?
• Father, turn on me thine eyes,
• See my blushes, hear my cries;
• Faint though be the cries I make,
• Save me, for thy mercy’s sake,
• From the worm, and from the fire,
• From the torments of thine ire.
• Fold me with the sheep that stand
• Pure and safe at thy right hand.
• Hear thy guilty child implore thee,
• Rolling in the dust before thee.
• Oh the horrors of that day!
• When this frame of sinful clay,
• Starting from its burial place,
• Must behold thee face to face.
• Hear and pity, hear and aid,
• Spare the creatures thou hast made.
• Mercy, mercy, save, forgive,
• Oh, who shall look on thee and live?

THE MARRIAGE OF TIRZAH AND AHIRAD. (1827.)

GENESIS VI. 3.

• • It is the dead of night:
  • Yet more than noonday light
  • Beams far and wide from many a gorgeous hall.
  • Unnumbered harps are tinkling,
  • Unnumbered lamps are twinkling,
  • In the great city of the fourfold wall.
  • By the brazen castle’s moat,
  • The sentry hums a livelier note.
  • The ship-boy chaunts a shriller lay
  • From the galleys in the bay.
  • Shout, and laugh, and hurrying feet
  • Sound from mart and square and street,
  • From the breezy laurel shades,
  • From the granite colonnades,
  • From the golden statue’s base,
  • From the stately market-place,
  • Where, upreared by captive hands,
  • The great Tower of Triumph stands,
  • All its pillars in a blaze
  • With the many-coloured rays,
  • Which lanthorns of ten thousand dyes
  • Shed on ten thousand panoplies.
  • But closest is the throng,
  • And loudest is the song,
  • In that sweet garden by the river’s side,
  • The abyss of myrtle bowers,
  • The wilderness of flowers,
  • Where Cain hath built the palace of his pride.
  • Such palace ne’er shall be again
  • Among the dwindling race of men.
  • From all its threescore gates the light
  • Of gold and steel afar was thrown;
  • Two hundred cubits rose in height
  • The outer wall of polished stone.
  • On the top was ample space
  • For a gallant chariot race.
  • Near either parapet a bed
  • Of the richest mould was spread,
  • Where amidst flowers of every scent and hue
  • Rich orange trees, and palms, and giant cedars grew.
• • In the mansion’s public court
  • All is revel, song, and sport;
  • For there, till morn shall tint the east,
  • Menials and guards prolong the feast.
  • The boards with painted vessels shine;
  • The marble cisterns foam with wine.
  • A hundred dancing girls are there
  • With zoneless waists and streaming hair;
  • And countless eyes with ardour gaze,
  • And countless hands the measure beat,
  • As mix and part in amorous maze
  • Those floating arms and bounding feet.
  • But none of all the race of Cain,
  • Save those whom he hath deigned to grace
  • With yellow robe and sapphire chain,
  • May pass beyond that outer space.
  • For now within the painted hall
  • The Firstborn keeps high festival.
  • Before the glittering valves all night
  • Their post the chosen captains hold.
  • Above the portal’s stately height
  • The legend flames in lamps of gold:
  • “In life united and in death
  • “May Tirzah and Ahirad be,
  • “The bravest he of all the sons of Seth,
  • “Of all the house of Cain the loveliest she.”
• • Through all the climates of the earth
  • This night is given to festal mirth.
  • The long continued war is ended.
  • The long divided lines are blended.
  • Ahirad’s bow shall now no more
  • Make fat the wolves with kindred gore.
  • The vultures shall expect in vain
  • Their banquet from the sword of Cain.
  • Without a guard the herds and flocks
  • Along the frontier moors and rocks
  • From eve to morn may roam;
  • Nor shriek, nor shout, nor reddened sky,
  • Shall warn the startled hind to fly
  • From his beloved home.
  • Nor to the pier shall burghers crowd
  • With straining necks and faces pale,
  • And think that in each flitting cloud
  • They see a hostile sail.
  • The peasant without fear shall guide
  • Down smooth canal or river wide
  • His painted bark of cane,
  • Fraught, for some proud bazaar’s arcades,
  • With chestnuts from his native shades,
  • And wine, and milk, and grain.
  • Search round the peopled globe to-night,
  • Explore each continent and isle,
  • There is no door without a light,
  • No face without a smile.
  • The noblest chiefs of either race,
  • From north and south, from west and east,
  • Crowd to the painted hall to grace
  • The pomp of that atoning feast.
  • With widening eyes and labouring breath
  • Stand the fair-haired sons of Seth,
  • As bursts upon their dazzled sight
  • The endless avenue of light,
  • The bowers of tulip, rose, and palm,
  • The thousand cressets fed with balm,
  • The silken vests, the boards piled high
  • With amber, gold, and ivory,
  • The crystal founts whence sparkling flow
  • The richest wines o’er beds of snow,
  • The walls where blaze in living dyes
  • The king’s three hundred victories.
  • The heralds point the fitting seat
  • To every guest in order meet,
  • And place the highest in degree
  • Nearest th’ imperial canopy.
  • Beneath its broad and gorgeous fold,
  • With naked swords and shields of gold,
  • Stood the seven princes of the tribes of Nod.
  • Upon an ermine carpet lay
  • Two tiger cubs in furious play,
  • Beneath the emerald throne where sat the signed of God.
• • Over that ample forehead white
  • The thousandth year returneth.
  • Still, on its commanding height,
  • With a fierce and blood-red light,
  • The fiery token burneth.
  • Wheresoe’er that mystic star
  • Blazeth in the van of war,
  • Back recoil before its ray
  • Shield and banner, bow and spear,
  • Maddened horses break away
  • From the trembling charioteer.
  • The fear of that stern king doth lie
  • On all that live beneath the sky;
  • All shrink before the mark of his despair,
  • The seal of that great curse which he alone can bear.
• • Blazing in pearls and diamonds’ sheen,
  • Tirzah, the young Ahirad’s bride,
  • Of humankind the destined queen,
  • Sits by her great forefather’s side.
  • The jetty curls, the forehead high,
  • The swanlike neck, the eagle face,
  • The glowing cheek, the rich dark eye,
  • Proclaim her of the elder race.
  • With flowing locks of auburn hue,
  • And features smooth, and eye of blue,
  • Timid in love as brave in arms,
  • The gentle heir of Seth askance
  • Snatches a bashful, ardent glance
  • At her majestic charms;
  • Blest when across that brow high musing flashes
  • A deeper tint of rose,
  • Thrice blest when from beneath the silken lashes
  • Of her proud eye she throws
  • The smile of blended fondness and disdain
  • Which marks the daughters of the house of Cain.
• • All hearts are light around the hall
  • Save his who is the lord of all.
  • The painted roofs, the attendant train,
  • The lights, the banquet, all are vain.
  • He sees them not. His fancy strays
  • To other scenes and other days.
  • A cot by a lone forest’s edge,
  • A fountain murmuring through the trees,
  • A garden with a wild flower hedge,
  • Whence sounds the music of the bees,
  • A little flock of sheep at rest
  • Upon a mountain’s swarthy breast.
  • On his rude spade he seems to lean
  • Beside the well remembered stone,
  • Rejoicing o’er the promise green
  • Of the first harvest man hath sown.
  • He sees his mother’s tears;
  • His father’s voice he hears,
  • Kind as when first it praised his youthful skill.
  • And soon a seraph-child,
  • In boyish rapture wild,
  • With a light crook comes bounding from the hill,
  • Kisses his hands, and strokes his face,
  • And nestles close in his embrace.
  • In his adamantine eye
  • None might discern his agony;
  • But they who had grown hoary next his side,
  • And read his stern dark face with deepest skill,
  • Could trace strange meanings in that lip of pride,
  • Which for one moment quivered and was still.
  • No time for them to mark or him to feel
  • Those inward stings; for clarion, flute, and lyre,
  • And the rich voices of a countless quire,
  • Burst on the ear in one triumphant peal.
  • In breathless transport sits the admiring throng,
  • As sink and swell the notes of Jubal’s lofty song.
• • “Sound the timbrel, strike the lyre,
  • Wake the trumpet’s blast of fire,
  • Till the gilded arches ring.
  • Empire, victory, and fame,
  • Be ascribed unto the name
  • Of our father and our king.
  • Of the deeds which he hath done,
  • Of the spoils which he hath won,
  • Let his grateful children sing.
  • “When the deadly fight was fought,
  • When the great revenge was wrought,
  • When on the slaughtered victims lay
  • The minion stiff and cold as they,
  • Doomed to exile, sealed with flame,
  • From the west the wanderer came.
  • Six score years and six he strayed
  • A hunter through the forest shade.
  • The lion’s shaggy jaws he tore,
  • To earth he smote the foaming boar,
  • He crushed the dragon’s fiery crest,
  • And scaled the condor’s dizzy nest;
  • Till hardy sons and daughters fair
  • Increased around his woodland lair.
  • Then his victorious bow unstrung
  • On the great bison’s horn he hung.
  • Giraffe and elk he left to hold
  • The wilderness of boughs in peace,
  • And trained his youth to pen the fold,
  • To press the cream, and weave the fleece.
  • As shrunk the streamlet in its bed,
  • As black and scant the herbage grew,
  • O’er endless plains his flocks he led
  • Still to new brooks and pastures new.
  • So strayed he till the white pavilions
  • Of his camp were told by millions,
  • Till his children’s households seven
  • Were numerous as the stars of heaven.
  • Then he bade us rove no more;
  • And in the place that pleased him best,
  • On the great river’s fertile shore,
  • He fixed the city of his rest.
  • He taught us then to bind the sheaves,
  • To strain the palm’s delicious milk,
  • And from the dark green mulberry leaves
  • To cull the filmy silk.
  • Then first from straw-built mansions roamed
  • O’er flower-beds trim the skilful bees;
  • Then first the purple wine vats foamed
  • Around the laughing peasant’s knees;
  • And olive-yards, and orchards green,
  • O’er all the hills of Nod were seen.
• • “Of our father and our king
  • Let his grateful children sing.
  • From him our race its being draws,
  • His are our arts, and his our laws.
  • Like himself he bade us be,
  • Proud, and brave, and fierce, and free.
  • True, through every turn of fate,
  • In our friendship and our hate.
  • Calm to watch, yet prompt to dare;
  • Quick to feel, yet firm to bear;
  • Only timid, only weak,
  • Before sweet woman’s eye and cheek.
  • We will not serve, we will not know,
  • The God who is our father’s foe.
  • In our proud cities to his name
  • No temples rise, no altars flame.
  • Our flocks of sheep, our groves of spice,
  • To him afford no sacrifice.
  • Enough that once the House of Cain
  • Hath courted with oblation vain
  • The sullen power above.
  • Henceforth we bear the yoke no more;
  • The only gods whom we adore
  • Are glory, vengeance, love.
• • “Of our father and our king
  • Let his grateful children sing.
  • What eye of living thing may brook
  • On his blazing brow to look?
  • What might of living thing may stand
  • Against the strength of his right hand?
  • First he led his armies forth
  • Against the Mammoths of the north,
  • What time they wasted in their pride
  • Pasture and vineyard far and wide.
  • Then the White River’s icy flood
  • Was thawed with fire and dyed with blood.
  • And heard for many a league the sound
  • Of the pine forests blazing round,
  • And the death-howl and trampling din
  • Of the gigantic herd within.
  • From the surging sea of flame
  • Forth the tortured monsters came;
  • As of breakers on the shore
  • Was their onset and their roar;
  • As the cedar-trees of God
  • Stood the stately ranks of Nod.
  • One long night and one short day
  • The sword was lifted up to slay.
  • Then marched the firstborn and his sons
  • O’er the white ashes of the wood,
  • And counted of that savage brood
  • Nine times nine thousand skeletons.
• • “On the snow with carnage red
  • The wood is piled, the skins are spread.
  • A thousand fires illume the sky;
  • Round each a hundred warriors lie.
  • But, long ere half the night was spent,
  • Forth thundered from the golden tent
  • The rousing voice of Cain.
  • A thousand trumps in answer rang,
  • And fast to arms the warriors sprang
  • O’er all the frozen plain.
  • A herald from the wealthy bay
  • Hath come with tidings of dismay.
  • From the western ocean’s coast
  • Seth hath led a countless host,
  • And vows to slay with fire and sword
  • All who call not on the Lord.
  • His archers hold the mountain forts;
  • His light armed ships blockade the ports;
  • His horsemen tread the harvest down.
  • On twelve proud bridges he hath passed
  • The river dark with many a mast,
  • And pitched his mighty camp at last
  • Before the imperial town.
• • “On the south and on the west,
  • Closely was the city prest.
  • Before us lay the hostile powers.
  • The breach was wide between the towers.
  • Pulse and meal within were sold
  • For a double weight of gold.
  • Our mighty father had gone forth
  • Two hundred marches to the north.
  • Yet in that extreme of ill
  • We stoutly kept his city still;
  • And swore beneath his royal wall,
  • Like his true sons, to fight and fall.
• • “Hark, hark, to gong and horn,
  • Clarion, and fife, and drum,
  • The morn, the fortieth morn,
  • Fixed for the great assault is come.
  • Between the camp and city spreads
  • A waving sea of helmed heads.
  • From the royal car of Seth
  • Was hung the blood-red flag of death:
  • At sight of that thrice-hallowed sign
  • Wide flew at once each banner’s fold;
  • The captains clashed their arms of gold;
  • The war cry of Elohim rolled
  • Far down their endless line.
  • On the northern hills afar
  • Pealed an answering note of war.
  • Soon the dust in whirlwinds driven,
  • Rushed across the northern heaven.
  • Beneath its shroud came thick and loud
  • The tramp as of a countless crowd;
  • And at intervals were seen
  • Lance and hauberk glancing sheen;
  • And at intervals were heard
  • Charger’s neigh and battle word.
• • “Oh what a rapturous cry
  • From all the city’s thousand spires arose,
  • With what a look the hollow eye
  • Of the lean watchman glared upon the foes,
  • With what a yell of joy the mother pressed
  • The moaning baby to her withered breast,
  • When through the swarthy cloud that veiled the plain
  • Burst on his children’s sight the flaming brow of Cain!”
• • There paused perforce that noble song;
  • For from all the joyous throng,
  • Burst forth a rapturous shout which drowned
  • Singer’s voice and trumpet’s sound.
  • Thrice that stormy clamour fell,
  • Thrice rose again with mightier swell.
  • The last and loudest roar of all
  • Had died along the painted wall.
  • The crowd was hushed; the minstrel train
  • Prepared to strike the chords again;
  • When on each ear distinctly smote
  • A low and wild and wailing note.
  • It moans again. In mute amaze
  • Menials, and guests, and harpers gaze.
  • They look above, beneath, around,
  • No shape doth own that mournful sound.
  • It comes not from the tuneful quire;
  • It comes not from the feasting peers;
  • There is no tone of earthly lyre
  • So soft, so sad, so full of tears.
  • Then a strange horror came on all
  • Who sate at that high festival.
  • The far famed harp, the harp of gold,
  • Dropped from Jubal’s trembling hold.
  • Frantic with dismay the bride
  • Clung to her Ahirad’s side.
  • And the corpse-like hue of dread
  • Ahirad’s haughty face o’erspread.
  • Yet not even in that agony of awe
  • Did the young leader of the fair-haired race
  • From Tirzah’s shuddering grasp his hand withdraw
  • Or turn his eyes from Tirzah’s livid face.
  • The tigers to their lord retreat,
  • And crouch and whine beneath his feet.
  • Prone sink to earth the golden shielded seven.
  • All hearts are cowed save his alone
  • Who sits upon the emerald throne;
  • For he hath heard Elohim speak from heaven.
  • Still thunders in his ear the peal;
  • Still blazes on his front the seal:
  • And on the soul of the proud king
  • No terror of created thing
  • From sky, or earth, or hell, hath power
  • Since that unutterable hour.
• • He rose to speak, but paused, and listening stood,
  • Not daunted, but in sad and curious mood,
  • With knitted brow, and searching eye of fire.
  • A deathlike silence sank on all around,
  • And through the boundless space was heard no sound,
  • Save the soft tones of that mysterious lyre.
  • Broken, faint, and low,
  • At first the numbers flow.
  • Louder, deeper, quicker, still
  • Into one fierce peal they swell,
  • And the echoing palace fill
  • With a strange funereal yell.
  • A voice comes forth. But what, or where?
  • On the earth, or in the air?
  • Like the midnight winds that blow
  • Round a lone cottage in the snow,
  • With howling swell and sighing fall,
  • It wails along the trophied hall.
  • In such a wild and dreary moan
  • The watches of the Seraphim
  • Poured out all night their plaintive hymn
  • Before the eternal throne.
  • Then, when from many a heavenly eye
  • Drops as of earthly pity fell
  • For her who had aspired too high,
  • For him who loved too well.
  • When, stunned by grief, the gentle pair
  • From the nuptial garden fair,
  • Linked in a sorrowful caress,
  • Strayed through the untrodden wilderness;
  • And close behind their footsteps came
  • The desolating sword of flame,
  • And drooped the cedared alley’s pride,
  • And fountains shrank, and roses died.
• • “Rejoice, oh Son of God, rejoice,”
  • Sang that melancholy voice,
  • “Rejoice, the maid is fair to see;
  • The bower is decked for her and thee;
  • The ivory lamps around it throw
  • A soft and pure and mellow glow.
  • Where’er the chastened lustre falls
  • On roof or cornice, floor or walls,
  • Woven of pink and rose appear
  • Such words as love delights to hear.
  • The breath of myrrh, the lute’s soft sound,
  • Float through the moonlight galleries round.
  • O’er beds of violet and through groves of spice,
  • Lead thy proud bride into the nuptial bower;
  • For thou hast bought her with a fearful price,
  • And she hath dowered thee with a fearful dower.
  • The price is life. The dower is death.
  • Accursed loss! Accursed gain!
  • For her thou givest the blessedness of Seth,
  • And to thine arms she brings the curse of Cain.
  • Round the dark curtains of the fiery throne
  • Pauses awhile the voice of sacred song:
  • From all the angelic ranks goes forth a groan,
  • ‘How long, O Lord, how long?’
  • The still small voice makes answer, ‘Wait and see,
  • Oh sons of glory, what the end shall be.’
• • “But, in the outer darkness of the place
  • Where God hath shown his power without his grace,
  • Is laughter and the sound of glad acclaim,
  • Loud as when, on wings of fire,
  • Fulfilled of his malign desire,
  • From Paradise the conquering serpent came.
  • The giant ruler of the morning star
  • From off his fiery bed
  • Lifts high his stately head,
  • Which Michael’s sword hath marked with many a scar.
  • At his voice the pit of hell
  • Answers with a joyous yell,
  • And flings her dusky portals wide
  • For the bridegroom and the bride.
• • “But louder still shall be the din
  • In the halls of Death and Sin,
  • When the full measure runneth o’er,
  • When mercy can endure no more,
  • When he who vainly proffers grace,
  • Comes in his fury to deface
  • The fair creation of his hand;
  • When from the heaven streams down amain
  • For forty days the sheeted rain;
  • And from his ancient barriers free,
  • With a deafening roar the sea
  • Comes foaming up the land.
  • Mother, cast thy babe aside:
  • Bridegroom, quit thy virgin bride:
  • Brother, pass thy brother by:
  • ’Tis for life, for life, ye fly.
  • Along the drear horizon raves
  • The swift advancing line of waves.
  • On: on: their frothy crests appear
  • Each moment nearer and more near.
  • Urge the dromedary’s speed;
  • Spur to death the reeling steed;
  • If perchance ye yet may gain
  • The mountains that o’erhang the plain.
• • “Oh thou haughty land of Nod,
  • Hear the sentence of thy God.
  • Thou hast said ‘Of all the hills
  • Whence, after autumn rains, the rills
  • In silver trickle down,
  • The fairest is that mountain white
  • Which intercepts the morning light
  • From Cain’s imperial town.
  • On its first and gentlest swell
  • Are pleasant halls where nobles dwell;
  • And marble porticoes are seen
  • Peeping through terraced gardens green.
  • Above are olives, palms, and vines;
  • And higher yet the dark-blue pines;
  • And highest on the summit shines
  • The crest of everlasting ice.
  • Here let the God of Abel own
  • That human art hath wonders shown
  • Beyond his boasted paradise.’
• • “Therefore on that proud mountain’s crown
  • Thy few surviving sons and daughters
  • Shall see their latest sun go down
  • Upon a boundless waste of waters.
  • None salutes and none replies;
  • None heaves a groan or breathes a prayer;
  • They crouch on earth with tearless eyes,
  • And clenched hands, and bristling hair.
  • The rain pours on: no star illumes
  • The blackness of the roaring sky.
  • And each successive billow booms
  • Nigher still and still more nigh.
  • And now upon the howling blast
  • The wreaths of spray come thick and fast;
  • And a great billow by the tempest curled
  • Falls with a thundering crash; and all is o’er.
  • And what is left of all this glorious world?
  • A sky without a beam, a sea without a shore.
• • “Oh thou fair land, where from their starry home
  • Cherub and seraph oft delight to roam,
  • Thou city of the thousand towers,
  • Thou palace of the golden stairs,
  • Ye gardens of perennial flowers,
  • Ye moated gates, ye breezy squares;
  • Ye parks amidst whose branches high
  • Oft peers the squirrel’s sparkling eye;
  • Ye vineyards, in whose trellised shade
  • Pipes many a youth to many a maid;
  • Ye ports where rides the gallant ship;
  • Ye marts where wealthy burghers meet;
  • Ye dark green lanes which know the trip
  • Of woman’s conscious feet;
  • Ye grassy meads where, when the day is done,
  • The shepherd pens his fold;
  • Ye purple moors on which the setting sun
  • Leaves a rich fringe of gold;
  • Ye wintry deserts where the larches grow;
  • Ye mountains on whose everlasting snow
  • No human foot hath trod;
  • Many a fathom shall ye sleep
  • Beneath the grey and endless deep,
  • In the great day of the revenge of God.”

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN’S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE.

An Election Ballad. (1827.)

• • As I sate down to breakfast in state,
  • At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring,
  • With Betty beside me to wait,
  • Came a rap that almost beat the door in.
  • I laid down my basin of tea,
  • And Betty ceased spreading the toast,
  • “As sure as a gun, sir,” said she,
  • “That must be the knock of the post.”
• • A letter — and free — bring it here —
  • I have no correspondent who franks.
  • No! Yes! Can it be? Why, my dear,
  • ’Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes.
  • “Dear sir, as I know you desire
  • That the Church should receive due protection,
  • I humbly presume to require
  • Your aid at the Cambridge election.
• • “It has lately been brought to my knowledge,
  • That the Ministers fully design
  • To suppress each cathedral and college,
  • And eject every learned divine.
  • To assist this detestable scheme
  • Three nuncios from Rome are come over;
  • They left Calais on Monday by steam,
  • And landed to dinner at Dover.
• • “An army of grim Cordeliers,
  • Well furnished with relics and vermin,
  • Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears,
  • To effect what their chiefs may determine.
  • Lollard’s bower, good authorities say,
  • Is again fitting up for a prison;
  • And a wood-merchant told me to-day
  • ’Tis a wonder how faggots have risen.
• • “The finance scheme of Canning contains
  • A new Easter-offering tax;
  • And he means to devote all the gains
  • To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks.
  • Your living, so neat and compact —
  • Pray, don’t let the news give you pain!—
  • Is promised, I know for a fact,
  • To an olive-faced Padre from Spain.”
• • I read, and I felt my heart bleed,
  • Sore wounded with horror and pity;
  • So I flew, with all possible speed,
  • To our Protestant champion’s committee.
  • True gentlemen, kind and well-bred!
  • No fleering! no distance! no scorn!
  • They asked after my wife who is dead,
  • And my children who never were born.
• • They then, like high-principled Tories,
  • Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady,
  • And assailed him with scandalous stories,
  • Till the coach for the voters was ready.
  • That coach might be well called a casket
  • Of learning and brotherly love:
  • There were parsons in boot and in basket;
  • There were parsons below and above.
• • There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair
  • Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches;
  • A smug chaplain of plausible air,
  • Who writes my Lord Goslingham’s speeches.
  • Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host,
  • Who, with arguments weighty as lead,
  • Proves six times a week in the Post
  • That flesh somehow differs from bread.
• • Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes
  • Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup;
  • Dr. Humdrum, whose eloquence flows,
  • Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup;
  • Dr. Rosygill puffing and fanning,
  • And wiping away perspiration;
  • Dr. Humbug, who proved Mr. Canning
  • The beast in St. John’s Revelation.
• • A layman can scarce form a notion
  • Of our wonderful talk on the road;
  • Of the learning, the wit, and devotion,
  • Which almost each syllable showed:
  • Why divided allegiance agrees
  • So ill with our free constitution;
  • How Catholics swear as they please,
  • In hope of the priest’s absolution;
• • How the Bishop of Norwich had bartered
  • His faith for a legate’s commission;
  • How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyr’d,
  • Had stooped to a base coalition;
  • How Papists are cased from compassion
  • By bigotry, stronger than steel;
  • How burning would soon come in fashion,
  • And how very bad it must feel.
• • We were all so much touched and excited
  • By a subject so direly sublime,
  • That the rules of politeness were slighted,
  • And we all of us talked at a time;
  • And in tones, which each moment grew louder,
  • Told how we should dress for the show,
  • And where we should fasten the powder,
  • And if we should bellow or no.
• • Thus from subject to subject we ran,
  • And the journey passed pleasantly o’er,
  • Till at last Dr. Humdrum began;
  • From that time I remember no more.
  • At Ware he commenced his prelection,
  • In the dullest of clerical drones;
  • And when next I regained recollection
  • We were rumbling o’er Trumpington stones.

SONG. (1827.)

• • O stay, Madonna! stay;
  • ’Tis not the dawn of day
  • That marks the skies with yonder opal streak:
  • The stars in silence shine;
  • Then press thy lips to mine,
  • And rest upon my neck thy fervid cheek.
• • O sleep, Madonna! sleep;
  • Leave me to watch and weep
  • O’er the sad memory of departed joys,
  • O’er hope’s extinguished beam,
  • O’er fancy’s vanished dream,
  • O’er all that nature gives and man destroys.
• • O wake, Madonna! wake;
  • Even now the purple lake
  • Is dappled o’er with amber flakes of light;
  • A glow is on the hill;
  • And every trickling rill
  • In golden threads leaps down from yonder height.
• • O fly, Madonna! fly,
  • Lest day and envy spy
  • What only love and night may safely know:
  • Fly, and tread softly, dear!
  • Lest those who hate us hear
  • The sounds of thy light footsteps as they go.

POLITICAL GEORGICS. (March 1828.)

• How cabinets are form’d, and how destroy’d,
• How Tories are confirm’d, and Whigs decoy’d,
• How in nice times a prudent man should vote,
• At what conjuncture he should turn his coat,
• The truths fallacious, and the candid lies,
• And all the lore of sleek majorities,
• I sing, great Premier. Oh, mysterious two,
• Lords of our fate, the Doctor and the Jew,
• If, by your care enriched, the aspiring clerk
• Quits the close alley for the breezy park,
• And Dolly’s chops and Reid’s entire resigns
• For odorous fricassees and costly wines;
• And you, great pair, through Windsor’s shades who rove,
• The Faun and Dryad of the conscious grove;
• All, all inspire me, for of all I sing,
• Doctor and Jew, and M—s and K—g.
• Thou, to the maudlin muse of Rydal dear;
• Thou more than Neptune, Lowther, lend thine ear.
• At Neptune’s voice the horse, with flowing mane
• And pawing hoof, sprung from th’ obedient plain;
• But at thy word the yawning earth, in fright,
• Engulf’d the victor steed from mortal sight.
• Haste from thy woods, mine Arbuthnot, with speed,
• Rich woods, where lean Scotch cattle love to feed:
• Let Gaffer Gooch and Boodle’s patriot band,
• Fat from the leanness of a plundered land,
• True Cincinnati, quit their patent ploughs,
• Their new steam-harrows, and their premium sows;
• Let all in bulky majesty appear,
• Roll the dull eye, and yawn th’ unmeaning cheer.
• Ye veteran Swiss, of senatorial wars,
• Who glory in your well-earned sticks and stars;
• Ye diners-out from whom we guard our spoons;
• Ye smug defaulters; ye obscene buffoons;
• Come all, of every race and size and form,
• Corruption’s children, brethren of the worm;
• From those gigantic monsters who devour
• The pay of half a squadron in an hour,
• To those foul reptiles, doomed to night and scorn,
• Of filth and stench equivocally born;
• From royal tigers down to toads and lice;
• From Bathursts, Clintons, Fanes, to H— and P—;
• Thou last, by habit and by nature blest
• With every gift which serves a courtier best,
• The lap-dog spittle, the hyæna bile,
• The maw of shark, the tear of crocodile,
• Whate’er high station, undetermined yet,
• Awaits thee in the longing Cabinet,—
• Whether thou seat thee in the room of Peel,
• Or from Lord Prig extort the Privy Seal,
• Or our Field-marshal-Treasurer fix on thee,
• A legal admiral, to rule the sea,
• Or Chancery-suits, beneath thy well-known reign,
• Turn to their nap of fifty years again;
• (Already L—, prescient of his fate,
• Yields half his woolsack to thy mightier weight;)
• Oh! Eldon, in whatever sphere thou shine,
• For opposition sure will ne’er be thine,
• Though scowls apart the lonely pride of Grey,
• Though Devonshire proudly flings his staff away,
• Though Lansdowne, trampling on his broken chain,
• Shine forth the Lansdowne of our hearts again,
• Assist me thou; for well I deem, I see
• An abstract of my ample theme in thee.
• Thou, as thy glorious self hath justly said,
• From earliest youth, wast pettifogger bred,
• And, raised to power by fortune’s fickle will,
• Art head and heart a pettifogger still.
• So, where once Fleet-ditch ran confessed, we view
• A crowded mart and stately avenue;
• But the black stream beneath runs on the same,
• Still brawls in W—’s key,—still stinks like H—’s name.

THE DELIVERANCE OF VIENNA.

Translated from Vincenzio da Filicaia.

THE LAST BUCCANEER. (1839.)

• • The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling,
  • The sky was black and drear,
  • When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name
  • Alongside the last Buccaneer.
• • “Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale,
  • When all others drive bare on the seas?
  • Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador,
  • Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?”
• • “From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound,
  • Without rudder or needle we steer;
  • Above, below, our bark, dies the sea fowl and the shark,
  • As we fly by the last Buccaneer.
• • “To night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde
  • A loud crash, and a louder roar;
  • And to-morrow shall the deep, with a heavy moaning, sweep
  • The corpses and wreck to the shore.”
• • The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride
  • In the breath of the citron shades;
  • And Severn’s towering mast securely now flies fast,
  • Through the sea of the balmy Trades.
• • From St. Jago’s wealthy port, from Havannah’s royal fort,
  • The seaman goes forth without fear;
  • For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight
  • Of the flag of the last Buccaneer.

EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE. (1845.)

• To my true king I offered free from stain
• Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
• For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,
• And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
• For him I languished in a foreign clime,
• Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood’s prime;
• Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees,
• And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
• Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
• Each morning started from the dream to weep;
• Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
• The resting place I asked, an early grave.
• Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
• From that proud country which was once mine own,
• By those white cliffs I never more must see,
• By that dear language which I spake like thee,
• Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
• O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

LINES WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1847.

• • The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o’er;
  • Worn out with toil, and noise, and scorn, and spleen,
  • I slumbered, and in slumber saw once more
  • A room in an old mansion, long unseen.
• • That room, methought, was curtained from the light;
  • Yet through the curtains shone the moon’s cold ray
  • Full on a cradle, where, in linen white,
  • Sleeping life’s first soft sleep, an infant lay.
• • Pale flickered on the hearth the dying flame,
  • And all was silent in that ancient hall,
  • Save when by fits on the low night-wind came
  • The murmur of the distant waterfall.
• • And lo! the fairy queens who rule our birth
  • Drew nigh to speak the new born baby’s doom:
  • With noiseless step, which left no trace on earth,
  • From gloom they came, and vanished into gloom.
• • Not deigning on the boy a glance to cast
  • Swept careless by the gorgeous Queen of Gain;
  • More scornful still, the Queen of Fashion passed,
  • With mincing gait and sneer of cold disdain.
• • The Queen of Power tossed high her jewelled head,
  • And o’er her shoulder threw a wrathful frown:
  • The Queen of Pleasure on the pillow shed
  • Scarce one stray rose-leaf from her fragrant crown.
• • Still Fay in long procession followed Fay;
  • And still the little couch remained unblest:
  • But, when those wayward sprites had passed away,
  • Came One, the last, the mightiest, and the best.
• • Oh glorious lady, with the eyes of light
  • And laurels clustering round thy lofty brow,
  • Who by the cradle’s side didst watch that night,
  • Warbling a sweet strange music, who wast thou?
• • “Yes, darling; let them go;” so ran the strain:
  • “Yes; let them go, gain, fashion, pleasure, power,
  • And all the busy elves to whose domain
  • Belongs the nether sphere, the fleeting hour.
• • “Without one envious sigh, one anxious scheme,
  • The nether sphere, the fleeting hour resign.
  • Mine is the world of thought, the world of dream,
  • Mine all the past, and all the future mine.
• • “Fortune, that lays in sport the mighty low,
  • Age, that to penance turns the joys of youth,
  • Shall leave untouched the gifts which I bestow,
  • The sense of beauty and the thirst of truth.
• • “Of the fair brotherhood who share my grace,
  • I, from thy natal day, pronounce thee free;
  • And, if for some I keep a nobler place,
  • I keep for none a happier than for thee.
• • “There are who, while to vulgar eyes they seem
  • Of all my bounties largely to partake,
  • Of me as of some rival’s handmaid deem,
  • And court me but for gain’s, power’s, fashion’s sake.
• • “To such, though deep their lore, though wide their fame,
  • Shall my great mysteries be all unknown:
  • But thou, through good and evil, praise and blame,
  • Wilt not thou love me for myself alone?
• • “Yes; thou wilt love me with exceeding love;
  • And I will tenfold all that love repay,
  • Still smiling, though the tender may reprove,
  • Still faithful, though the trusted may betray.
• • “For aye mine emblem was, and aye shall be,
  • The ever-during plant whose bough I wear,
  • Brightest and greenest then, when every tree
  • That blossoms in the light of Time is bare.
• • “In the dark hour of shame, I deigned to stand
  • Before the frowning peers at Bacon’s side:
  • On a far shore I smoothed with tender hand,
  • Through months of pain, the sleepless bed of Hyde:
• • “I brought the wise and brave of ancient days
  • To cheer the cell where Raleigh pined alone:
  • I lighted Milton’s darkness with the blaze
  • Of the bright ranks that guard the eternal throne.
• • “And even so, my child, it is my pleasure
  • That thou not then alone shouldst feel me nigh,
  • When, in domestic bliss and studious leisure,
  • Thy weeks uncounted come, uncounted fly;
• • “Not then alone, when myriads, closely pressed
  • Around thy car, the shout of triumph raise;
  • Nor when, in gilded drawing rooms, thy breast
  • Swells at the sweeter sound of woman’s praise.
• • “No: when on restless night dawns cheerless morrow,
  • When weary soul and wasting body pine,
  • Thine am I still, in danger, sickness, sorrow,
  • In conflict, obloquy, want, exile, thine;
• • “Thine, where on mountain waves the snowbirds scream,
  • Where more than Thule’s winter barbs the breeze,
  • Where scarce, through lowering clouds, one sickly gleam
  • Lights the drear May-day of Antarctic seas;
• • “Thine, when around thy litter’s track all day
  • White sandhills shall reflect the blinding glare;
  • Thine, when, through forests breathing death, thy way
  • All night shall wind by many a tiger’s lair;
• • “Thine most, when friends turn pale, when traitors fly,
  • When, hard beset, thy spirit, justly proud,
  • For truth, peace, freedom, mercy, dares defy
  • A sullen priesthood and a raving crowd.
• • “Amidst the din of all things fell and vile,
  • Hate’s yell, and envy’s hiss, and folly’s bray,
  • Remember me; and with an unforced smile
  • See riches, baubles, flatterers, pass away.
• • “Yes: they will pass away; nor deem it strange:
  • They come and go, as comes and goes the sea:
  • And let them come and go: thou, through all change,
  • Fix thy firm gaze on virtue and on me.”