The bleeding scaffold, or the dungeon's gloom,
The sacred glories of the martyr's tomb.
Where, when the fires of death more fiercely rise
Sweet Hope, with bosom calm and radiant eyes,
Absolves the doubtful justice of the skies.
There shine, where Sidney fell, the opprobrious
There the grey virtue of a Cranmer calls; [walls,
Forms how benign attend his closing years,
Majestic sorrows-penitential tears!
Tender remorse, and soft upbraidings sent
By the contrite heart, and conscience rightly bent,
Fetching forgiveness home through punishment.
There Russell stood-while love and beauty nigh,
Watch'd each low word, and caught each chang-
Gaz'd on the gleaming axe, the headsman's frown,
And the rich blood that stain'd the tyrant's crown.
In
yon dim aisle unmark'd a Milton sleeps;
O'er Rawleigh's grave indignant virtue weeps,
Greatest, when all were great-serene and gay,
There More, unmov'd beheld life's closing day,
And frowning on his foes, great Strafford stood
at bay.
Nor be the names unhonour'd in the page
Of faithful memory, calling back her age
With tears of holy joy and love divine!
To hang a pensive wreath upon the shrine
Of them who put-in hard affliction tried—
Crosier, and crown, and jewell'd robe aside;
Begging with earnest zeal to be denied.
Left all, and fled-fled to life's holier shade,
Changing the sceptre for the peasant's spade.
Perchance a monarch on his throne to-day,
To-morrow, what? a hermit lone and grey,
Asking of heaven in penitence to pray.
And such was he whom time could never wrong,
(His name would sanctify the weakest song),
Who left high Lambeth's venerable towers,
For his small heritage and humble bowers,
Conscience and faith his guide-and what if now,
Taking the mitre from his aged brow,
(Crowds round his knees, and many a furrow'd cheek,
And glist'ning eye, that seem'd indeed to speak Better than language, seeing him depart,
In the meek sorrows of a silent heart:
Soft gentle deeds, blossoms of love, that hung
Ever around him,--could they want a tongue?
Tears too from childhood, and the words that call,
• Father and Friend'—were heard alike from all.)
Gently he pass'd beside them, with a mien.
Temper'd with hope and fortitude serene;
Nor deem him unattended with a train
Of more sublime emotions, free from pain
Of doubt or fear,-like an unclouded day
Upon the golden hills in endless ray,
A well-spring in his heart without decay;
As one who knew that god a home had made
For those he cherish'd, in the humblest shade.
Now with his staff, on his paternal ground,
Amid his orchard trees he may be found
An old man late return'd, where he was seen
Sporting a child upon the village green.
How many a changeful year had pass'd between,.
Blanching his scatter'd hairs—yet leaving there
A heart kept young by piety and prayer;
That to the inquiring friend could meekly tell,
"Be not for me afflicted-it is well :
For in my great integrity I fell.
'Twas in my great integrity I made
The choice that sends me to my native shade."
Lo! Themis hall!-there the coif'd serjeant draws
Through winding eloquence the Norman laws.
Yet Justice there, severely kind, repairs
The widow's wrongs, and dries the orphan's tears.
Leans with delight on Eldon's honour'd name
(So wise his counsel, so mature his fame),
And owns (forgot the breath of public rage)
The more than Hardwicke of a later age.
Time-honour'd thou shalt be!~and though thy
years
May now speak no continuance, and the fears
Of good men hang around thee-though a line,
Written by me, shall meet no eye of thine:
Yet will I in my gratitude, thy name
(Oh! that my verse were lasting, and that fame
Went with it), unto all in praise proclaim.
While others speak thee, wise and learn'd, of
Arbiter, such as England seldom saw.
(Mute silence list'ning, and each dubious plea,
Taken by reason to thy firm decree)
Statesman and sage-a better, I will lend
A higher title still-the generous friend.
The summer sun is set-dark autumn shrouds
His dripping pinions in the southern clouds.
Thro' the pale woods the showers of foliage sweep,
And the rough surge is whitening all the deep.
Now round the social fire, and steaming urn,
O'er fragrant cups the studious lamp we burn;
Or dream of days (ah! why should fate deny!)
Long days beneath Ausonia's golden sky.
On Mincio's banks, at shut of evening hours,
The bee is sleeping in his ark of flowers:
Past are the Julian hills-and lo! the plain
Spreading by soft Adeste's green domain.
Now with the shepherd on Soracte's brow,
Gazing the marble city; now below,
Where Tiber's pale and silent waters flow.
With nicest taste our evening banquet glows,
From the rich flask old Gascon's vintage flows.
And though the stars are set, we still prolong
The cheerful converse and instructive song;
With many a tale the friendly feast refine,
And jest that sparkles in the flowing wine.
Yet ours to scorn the foul insatiate stain
Insidious Circe, and her siren train.
Chaste are the guests the timid muses bring,
And chaste as crystal dews, Apollo's spring.
Thus pleas'd we hail our W-lm-t's gifts refin'd,
So bright his numbers, and so pure his mind.
Gentle and good! if greater praise there be
Or more enduring, it belongs to thee,
Accomplish'd W-Im-t!-thy serener eye
Unmov'd beholds each tempting pleasure nigh.
Far from the fears that softer minds await,
With the sweet muse and sounding lyre elate.
Oh, eloquent of song! whose dawning ray
Now burns and brightens into purer day;
Not thine the lover's flower-encircled chain,
Long years consum'd at beauty's feet in vain,
Delusive hopes, and pleasure's laughing train:
Not thine the Teïan blooms, the Lesbian wreath,
Bedew'd with wine, and rich with beauty's breath,
Charms not thine ear the sweet Provençal tale,
Nor Arno warbling down the Etrurian vale;
Young love in vain his myrtle wand supplies,
In vain her spells the soft enchantress tries,
Though the bright shaft is wing'd with light from
B-g-t's eyes.
We read alternate, and alternate hear
Songs that might win attention's choicest ear;
Rich with the spoils of all Castalia's dew,
And truths that haughty Athens only knew.
Those tragic strains, worthy the Delphic shrine,
Of Thebes, and Pelops' race, and Troy divine;
And not unheard the surge's midnight roar
Breaking on the proud solitude, that bore [shore.
The warrior's wounded cries from Lemnos' rocky.
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