And this is power? Alas! I am not happy.
[After a pause.
And yet the Nile is fretted by the weeds
Its rising roots not up; but never yet
Did one least barrier by a ripple vex
My onward tide, unswept in sport away.
Am I so ruthless then that I do hate
Them who hate me ? Tush, tush! I do not
hate;

Nay, I forgive. The Statesman writes the doom,

But the Priest sends the blessing. I forgive them,

But I destroy; forgiveness is mine own, Destruction is the State's! For private life, Scripture the guide — for public, Machiavel. Would fortune serve me if the Heaven were

wroth?

For chance makes half my greatness. I was born

Beneath the aspect of a bright-eyed star,
And my triumphant adamant of soul
Is but the fix'd persuasion of success.
Ah! - here!

that spasm!

How Life and Death

again!

Do wrestle for me momently! And yet The King looks pale. I shall outlive the King!

And then, thou insolent Austrian-who

didst gibe

At the ungainly, gaunt, and daring lover, Sleeking thy looks to silken Buckingham, Thou shalt no matter! I have outliv'd

love.

O beautiful, all golden, gentle youth! Making thy palace in the careless front And hopeful eye of man, ere yet the soul Hath lost the memories which (so Plato dream'd)

Breath'd glory from the earlier star it dwelt in

Oh, for one gale from thine exulting morning,

Stirring amidst the roses, where of old Love shook the dew-drops from his glancing hair!

Could I recall the past, or had not set
The prodigal treasures of the bankrupt soul

In one slight bark upon the shoreless sea; The yoked steer, after his day of toil, Forgets the goad, and rests: to me alike Or day or night - Ambition has no rest! Shall I resign? who can resign himself? For custom is ourself; as drink and food Become our bone and flesh, the aliments Nurturing our nobler part, the mind, thoughts, dreams,

Passions, and aims, in the revolving cycle Of the great alchemy, at length are made Our mind itself; and yet the sweets of leisure,

An honor'd home far from these base intrigues,

An eyrie on the heaven-kiss'd heights of wisdom.

And blew the note with yell and shout
And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,

To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.

There stood the Whig west-country lords,
In balcony and bow;

There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames,
And their daughters all a-row.
And every open window

Was full as full might be

With black-rob'd Covenanting carles,
That goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan,
He look'd so great and high,

So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout forbore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder
Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him
Now turn'd aside and wept.

But onwards. always onwards,
In silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant labor'd,

Till it reach'd the house of doom.
Then first a woman's voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,
And an angry cry and a hiss arose

From the heart of the tossing crowd:
Then as the Graeme look'd upwards,
He saw the ugly smile

Of him who sold his king for gold,
The master-fiend Argyle!

The Marquis gaz'd a moment,
And nothing did he say,

But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale
And he turn'd his eyes away.
The painted harlot by his side,

She shook through every limb,
For a roar like thunder swept the street,
And hands were clench'd at him;
And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,
"Back, coward, from thy place!

And God who made shall gather them :
I go from you to Him!

The morning dawn'd full darkly,
The rain came flashing down,
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town:

The thunder crash'd across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;

Yet aye broke in with muffled beat
The 'larum of the drum.

There was madness on the earth below
And anger in the sky,

And young and old, and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal 't is to see

The great tall spectral skeleton,
The ladder and the tree !
Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms
The bells begin to toll-
"He is coming! he is coming!
God's mercy on his soul !

One last long peal of thunder:

The clouds are clear'd away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down

Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison

To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walk'd to battle More proudly than to die : There was color in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

He mounted the scaffold,
up

And he turn'd him to the crowd;
But they dar'd not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he look'd upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether

The eye of God shone through;
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within-
All else was calm and still.