Altho' they get into the head
Of some who are too highly fed;
A hungry mountain swain meanwhile
From bitter crust o'erflows with bile.
There was one powerful man, and only one
In God's wide world; what could he not achieve?
He might have driven from her citadel
Defiant Falsehood and her tawdry guards
And bastard progeny innumerable;
He might have propt up cities with one arm
And driven with the other from the temple
Sellers of bones, of charms, of opiates,
Of glittering gauds and cutlery occult;
He, like the blessed one of Nazareth,
Might have restored the sight of the stone-blind
And raised the prostrate cripple up erect.
Earth spread her feast before him, millions rose
To serve him and to bless him; did he bring
An honest man with him? he brought instead
Desperate swordsmen and astuter knaves,
Who sit around him, and will sit until
The night fall heavily on their carouse,
And the seats reel beneath 'em, unregain'd.
Changarnier and a poet with a De
Now to his name cry freedom! and make free, O Rome, to quarter hungry thieves on thee.
Have I not seen thee, little hoof, before
Thou wast a handle to my stable-door?
Have I not seen thee trotting o'er the park
In dread when distant hounds began to bark?
Ah! how much rather would I see thee now
With branching horns above thy lifted brow,
Commanding me by angry stamp to go
And keep away from where lie fawn and doe.
I never thought to feel again for deer
The guilt of murder that confronts me here.
So sad a mourner never bent
Against a marble monument
As, poorest of the paupers, she
On the damp grass who bends the knee
O'er her one lost; her words are few,
What shall I do! what shall I do!
Are all she says, but those aloud,
And pity moves the silent crowd.
She rises.. she must carry back
The lent and oft darn'd gown of black.
No city on the many-peopled earth
Hath been the witness of such valiant deeds
As thou hast, Ptolemais! and by whom
Were they achieved? by Britons, one and all.
The first our lion-hearted king may claim,
And who the second? he who drove across
The torrid desert the (till then uncheckt)
Invader, from those realms the Ptolemies
Ruled, and the Cæsars follow'd in their train,
Sidney the last of chivalry. . One more
Rode o'er the sea to win the crown that hung
Inviting on thy walls: he also bore
A name illustrious even as Sidney's own,
Napier was he.
'Tis somewhat to have held His hand in mine, 'tis somewhat to record One of his actions in the crowded page.
Gesner, to Sicily he does no wrong
Who listens fondly to thy pastoral song.
The Muses, nurst by Nature, bow'd the head
And sigh'd in silence when thy spirit fled.
Homer's sole rival, Mincio's youthful swain
To catch Sicilian tones essay'd in vain.
None dared take up the broken pipe, for none
Among the wistful claim'd it as his own.
A sunny clime call'd many a piper forth,
But only thy strong pinion braved the north.
Under his pulpit lies poor Sydney,*
And few are left us of his kidney.
With me, my friends, you can but lunch,
For a good dinner go to Punch.
The grandest writer of late ages
Who wrapt up Rome in golden pages,
Whom scarcely Livius equal'd, Gibbon,
Died without star or cross or ribbon.
We hear no more an attic song,
Teuton cuts out the Athenian's tongue,
And witches and hobgoblins fill
Each crevice of the Aonian hill.
Many can rule and more can fight,
But few give myriad hearts delight.
Poets as strong as ever were,
Formerly breath'd our British air:
Ours now display but boyish strength,
And rather throw themselves full length,
Waller was easy, so was Sedley,
Nor mingled with the rhyming medley.
Descending from her higher places
The Muse led Prior to the Graces:
He was the first they condescended
To visit.. are their visits ended?
A TALE BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
Chaucer I fancied had been dead
Some centuries, some four or five;
By fancy I have been misled
Like many he is yet alive.
The Widow's Ordeal who beside
Could thus relate? Yes, there is one,
He bears beyond the Atlantic wide The glorious name of Washington. * Sydney Smith.
Gibbon has planted laurels long to bloom
Above the ruins of sepulchral Rome.
He sang no dirge, but mused upon the land
Where Freedom took his solitary stand.
To him Thucydides and Livius bow,
And Superstition veils her wrinkled brow.
No, I will never weave a sonnet,
Let others wear their patience on it;
A better use of time I know
Than tossing shuttles to and fro.
Parrots have richly colour'd wings,
Not so the sweetest bird that sings;
Not so the lonely plaintive dove;
In sadder stole she moans her love,
And every Muse in every tongue
Has heard and praised her nightly song.
To-morrow if the day is fine
I visit you before you dine.
Juliet a little shy may be,
But Blanche will sit upon my knee,
Just as another some years older
Sat once with arm about my shoulder.
This is all twaddle, folks will say,
But you are wiser far than they.
head they could not reach
The lines of this unspoken speech.
Forgive me, Gertrude, if I'm proud,
Your hand has raised me o'er the crowd.
Rather than flighty Fame give me
A bird on wrist or puss on knee.
Death is not to be charm'd by rhymes
Nor shoved away to after-times.
Of maiden's or of poet's song
Did anything on earth sound long?
Why then should ever mortal care
About what floats in empty air?
All we devise and all we know
Is better kept for use than show.
Perhaps we deem ourselves the wise,
Other may see with clearer eyes.
Little I care for Fame or Death,
От groan for one gasp more of breath.
Death, in approaching me, looks grim,
I in return but smile at him.
"Children of Pallas!" is the voice that swells
Above the lofty Parthenon, "awake, awake
From heavy slumber and illusive dreams,
Throw the door open.. Look at Babylon,
Corinth and Carthage and Jerusalem,
Earth's giant offspring whom she rear'd in vain :
They all are dust, or worse than dust, a haunt
Of brutes, and brutal men, who tear the beard
One off another to cram down their throats
Incredibilities which both call creeds.
Whatever stands must fall; the dust alone
We trample on rises and keeps its form.
There was one holy man who said to all
Love ye each other:' all have heard the words,
Few mind them; prayer serves for obedience.
Grivas! whom Hellas now envokes by name,
Albeit that name was never heard of yore
And time has paralized the mother tongue...
Do thou forbid the insidious foot to tread
Thy sacred land; let speech and thought be free;
So shalt thou hear such hymns as shook the fanes
When Eschylos from Marathon return'd,
And Athens envied most the wounded brave."
Never must my bones be laid
Under the mimosa's shade.
He to whom I gave my all
Swept away her guardian wall,
And her green and level plot
Green or level now is not.
|