"Is this the race of Clive?" cried they :
"Did Hastings exercise such sway?"
They since have seen him rais'd not more
In pride or splendour than before,
And studious but to leave behind
The blessing of just laws to Scinde.
Therefore do thou, if health permit,
Add one page more to Holy Writ.
Such is the page wherein are shown
The fragments of a bloody throne,
And peace and happiness restor'd
By their old enemy the sword.
Hasten, my friend, the work begun,
For daily dimmer grows our sun,
And age, if farther off from thee,
Creeps on, though imperceptibly.

Some call him slow, some find him fast,
But all he overtakes at last,
Unless they run and will not wait,
But overleap life's flower-twined gate.
We may not leave the lighted town
Again to tread our turfy down,
Thence tracing Avon's misty white,
The latest object seiz'd by Night,
Nor part at Claverton when Jove
Is the sole star we see above;
Yet friends for evermore. If War
Had rear'd me a triumphal car,
Imperfect would have been my pride
Unless he plac'd thee close beside,

And shouts like these the skies might rend,
"See the brave man he chose for friend!"

CCCVIII.

TO MATHEW AND WOLFF.

Who are those men that pass us? men well-girt
For voyaging; of aspect meek, of breath
Ardent, of eyes that only look to heaven.

I must perforce abase before them mine,

Unworthy to behold them; I must check

Against their God, and raise up images
Arrayed in purple all befringed with gold,
For blindfold men to worship, and ordain
That flocks and herds and corn, nay, common
grass,

Nay, what the rivers and the seas throw up,
Be laid before them for their revelry.
The twisted columns are grand ornaments;
Yet all their foliage, all their fruitage, lends
Support but feeble to the dome above.
Ye pass bareheaded under open heaven,
Under the torrid and the frozen sky,

To preach the word of truth, to snatch the soul
From death, the captive from his double chain :
Therefore be glory to you both on high,

On earth (what none so deeply sigh for) peace!

Michelet! Time urges me down life's descent,
Yet suffers me to breathe and look abroad
And view one object, grand and luminous,
In the clear south: 'tis thou; apart, alone,
Brave combatant, above all bravery
Of proudest battle-field! No eloquence
In thy own land, altho' that land pour'd forth
From Paschal and from Bossuet such as Rome
And Athens never heard, is warm as thine.
To raise the feeble, to abase the proud,
To strike the mask from frockt Hypocrisy,

Praise, which they would not from men's lip Is worthy of thy genius. Deign to hear

CCCXI.

TO MACAULAY.

The dreamy rhymer's measured snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of woman-kind,
Who win their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achieved the crowning work
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a Turk.
Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead.
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns,
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.

He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years,
Far worthier things than tears.

The love of friends without a single foe:
Unequalled lot below!

His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine;
For these dost thou repine?

He may have left the lowly walks of men;
Left them he has; what then?

Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes
Of all the good and wise?

Tho' the warm day is over, yet they seek
Upon the lofty peak

Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows
O'er death's perennial snows.

Behold him from the region of the blest
He speaks: he bids thee rest.

CCCXII.

TO JOHN KENYON.

So, Kenyon, thou lover of frolic and laughter,
We meet in a place where we never were sad.
But who knows what destiny waits us hereafter,

How little or much of the pleasures we had!
The leaves of perhaps our last autumn are falling;
Half-spent is the fire that may soon cease to
burn;

How many are absent who heed not our calling!

Alas, and how many who can not return!
Now, ere you are one of them, puff from before

you

The sighs and entreaties that sadden Torquay: A score may cling round you, and one may adore

you;

If so, the more reason to hurry away.

CCCXIII.

TO ROBERT BROWNING.

There is delight in singing, tho' none hear
Beside the singer: and there is delight
In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone
And see the prais'd far off him, far above.
Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walkt along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes!

Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze

Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where

The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

CCCXIV.

TO THE SISTER OF ELIA.

Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile!

Again shall Elia's smile

CCCXV.

TO JOSEPH ABLETT.

Lord of the Celtic dells,

Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel tells
Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance
The plumes of flashy France,

Or, in dark region far across the main,
Far as Grenada in the world of Spain,

Warriors untold to Saxon ear,
Until their steel-clad spirits reappear;

How happy were the hours that held
Thy friend (long absent from his native home)
Amid thy scenes with thee! how wide a-field

From all past cares and all to come!
What hath Ambition's feverish grasp, what hath
Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope;
What Genius, that should cope

With the heart-whispers in that path
Winding so idly, where the idler stream
Flings at the white-hair'd poplars gleam for gleam?
Ablett, of all the days

My sixty summers ever knew,
Pleasant as there have been no few,
Memory not one surveys

Like those we spent together. Wisely spent
Are they alone that leave the soul content.

Together we have visited the men

Whom Pictish pirates vainly would have drown'd;

Ah, shall we ever clasp the hand again

That gave the British harp its truest sound? Live, Derwent's guest! and thou by Grasmere springs!

Serene creators of immortal things.

And live too thou for happier days
Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays
Have heart and soul possest:

Growl in grim London he who will,

Revisit thou Maiano's hill,

And swell with pride his sun-burnt breast. Old Redi in his easy chair

Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more. With varied chant awaits thee there,

What is it we deplore?

VOL. II.

And here are voices in the grove

XX

And one at home (how dear that one!) recalls
Thy name, and thou recallest one at home.
Yet turn not back thine eyes; the hour of tears
Is over; nor believe thou that Romance
Closes against pure Faith her rich domain.
Shall only blossoms flourish there? Arise,
Far-sighted bride! look forward! clearer views
And higher hopes lie under calmer skies.
Fortune in vain call'd out to thee; in vain
Rays from high regions darted; Wit pour'd out
His sparkling treasures; Wisdom laid his crown
Of richer jewels at thy reckless feet.

Well hast thou chosen. I repeat the words,
Adding as true ones, not untold before,

From better men, and greater, friendship turn'd
Thy willing steps to me. From Eliot's cell
Death-dark; from Hampden's sadder battle-field;
From steadfast Cromwell's tribunitian throne,
Loftier than kings' supported knees could mount;
Hast thou departed with me, and hast climbed
Cecropian highths, and ploughed Ægean waves.
Therefore it never grieved me when I saw
That she who guards those regions and those seas
Hath lookt with eyes more gracious upon thee.
There are no few like that conspirator
Who, under prètext of power-worship, fell
At Cæsar's feet, only to hold him down

While others stabb'd him with repeated blows:

ERRATA.

VOL. II. PAGE 11. "Laying," read “flaying."
16. "Abashed" read "abased."

36."Running into," read "retiring."

59. Dele sentence beginning " As some men conceive." 119. "Tracts they," read" then."

136. "Pass," read " pass away."

175." Application," read "appellation.”
176. "Expected," read "exacted."

202. "Even hears," read "ever."

238. "Our hands," read "heads."

247." Memory and," read "reflection and."

271. "Stealeth," read "stealest."

276. "Checkmen," read "cheesemen."

312. "It would by," read " be."

395. Dele the lines "Love ran with me, &c."

420." Kisses," read "empty kisses.”

483. Dele "The Death of Artemidora."

Scornful of favour, ignorant of fear.

Yon vine upon the maple bough
Flouts at the hearty wheat below;
Away her venal wines the wise man sends,

While those of lower stem he brings
From inmost treasure-vault, and sings
Their worth and age among his chosen friends.
Behold our Earth,+ most nigh the sun
Her zone least opens to the genial heat,

But farther off her veins more freely run:
*Affrico. A little stream celebrated by Boccaccio, in

his Ninfale, &c. To this place his Bella Brigáta retired, to relate the last stories of the Decameron. The Author's villa (formerly Count Gherardesca's, the representative of the unhappy Count Ugolino) stands directly above what was anciently the lake described there.

It is calculated that the Earth is two million seven

wore ;

Upon the silent boughs the lissom air
Rested; and, only when it went, they moved,
Nor more than under linnet springing off.
Such was the wedding-morn: the joyous Year
Lept over March and April up to May.

Regent of rising and of ebbing hearts,
Thyself borne on in cool serenity,
All heaven around and bending over thee,
All earth below and watchful of thy course!
Well hast thou chosen, after long demur
To aspirations from more realms than one.
Peace be with those thou leavest! peace with thee!
Is that enough to wish thee? not enough,

hundred and fifty-four thousand miles nearer to the But very much for Love himself feels pain,

sun in the shortest day than in the longest.

While brighter plumage shoots, to shed last year's;