So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on itself did lay.

GREAT MEN.

GREAT men have been among us; hands that penned

And tongues that uttered wisdom, better

none:

The later Sydney, Marvel, Harington, Young Vane and others, who called Milton friend.

These moralists could act and comprehend:

They knew how genuine glory was put

on;

Taught us how rightfully a nation shone In splendor: what strength was, that would not bend

But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,

Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.

Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change! No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road; But equally a want of books and men!

TO THOMAS CLARKSON.

ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE BILL FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE, MARCH, 1807.

CLARKSON! it was an obstinate hill to climb:

How toilsome, nay, how dire it was, by

thee

Is known by none, perhaps so feelingly;

But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,

Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage

sublime,

Hast heard the constant voice its charge

repeat,

Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,

First roused thee, O true yoke-fellow of
Time.

With unabating effort, see, the palm
Is won, and by all nations shall be

worn!

The bloody writing is for ever torn, And thou henceforth shall have a good man's calm,

A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find

Repose at length, firm friend of human kind!

FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE.

O'ER the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,

Dwells in the affections and the soul of

man

A godhead, like the universal Pan,
But more exalted, with a brighter train.
And shall his bounty be dispensed in
vain,

Showered equally on city and on field, And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield

In these usurping times of fear and pain? Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it, Heaven!

We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws

To which the triumph of all good is given,

High sacrifice, and labor without pause, Even to the death: else wherefore should the eye

Of man converse with immortality?

Were England's native growth; and, throughout Spain,

Thanks to high God! forests of such remain;

Then for that country let our hopes be bold;

For matched with these shall policy prove vain,

Her arts, her strength, her iron, and he gold.

GEORGE III. November, 1813.

Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,

Our aged Sovereign sits to the ebb and flow

Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe, Insensible; he sits deprived of sight, And lamentably wrapped in twofold night,

Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued,

Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,

Peace that should claim respect from lawless might.

Dread King of kings, vouchsafe a ray divine

To his forlorn condition! let thy grace Upon his inner soul in mercy shine; Permit his heart to kindle, and embrace (Though were it only for a moment's space)

The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE!

G

A wandering Harper, scorn'd and poor, He begg'd his bread from door to door. And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp, a king had loved to hear.

He pass'd where Newark's' stately

tower

Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower:
The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye –
No humbler resting-place was nigh,
With hesitating step at last,
The embattled portal arch he pass'd,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The Duchess mark'd his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man
well:

For she had known adversity,

Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody
tomb!

When kindness had his wants sup
plied,

And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride:
And he began to talk anon,

Of good Earl Francis, 3 dead and gone,
And of Earl Walter, rest him, God!
A braver ne'er to battle rode;
And how full many a tale he knew,
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch :
And, would the noble Duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though
weak,

1 Newark's stately tower. A ruined tower now; situated three miles from Selkirk, on the banks of the Yarrow.

The Duchess. Anne, the heiress of Buccleuch, who had been married to the unhappy Duke of Monmouth, son of Charles II. He was beheaded for rebellion against James II. 1685

Earl Francis. The Duchess's late father. 4 Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather of the Duchess, and a celebrated warrior.

He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,

That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtain'd;
The aged Minstrel audience gain'd.
But, when he reach'd the room of
state,

Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wished his boon denied:
For, when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the

ease,

Which marks security to please;
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain
He tried to tune his harp in vain!
The pitying Duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him
time,

Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain,
He never thought to sing again.
It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls;
He had play'd it to King Charles the
Good,

When he kept court in Holyrood;
And much he wish'd, yet fear'd to try
The long-forgotten melody.
Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,
And an uncertain warbling made,
And oft he shook his hoary head.
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and
smiled:

And lighten'd up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along;
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot:
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his harp responsive rung,
'Twas thus the LATEST MINSTREL Sung

MELROSE ABBEY.

[Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto ii.]

I.

IF thou would'st view fair Melrose

aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,

Then

go-but go alone the while Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair!

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. [Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto vi.]

I.

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,

As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentrated all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.