FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET.

SAID to Time, "This venerable pile, Its floor the earth, its roof the firmament,

Whose was it once?"

not, but fled

He answered

Fast as before. I turned to Fame, and asked,
"Names such as his, to thee they must be known.
Speak!" But she answered only with a sigh,
And, musing mournfully, looked on the ground.
Then to Oblivion I addressed myself,
A dismal phantom, sitting at the gate;
And, with a voice as from the grave, he cried,
"Whose it was once I care not; now 'tis mine."

WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.1

OCTOBER 10, 1806.

HOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with
a sigh,

Mark where the small remains of
Greatness lie.2

There sleeps the dust of Fox for ever gone;
How near the Place where late his glory shone!
And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful Dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,

1 After the funeral of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. ? Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, &c BOSSUET, Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon.

till do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Aisle,
That, like a Darkness, filled the solemn Pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those, that loved Him living, mourned Him
dead;

Of those the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dared be singularly good;
All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own;
And nothing wanting-but Himself alone!1

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name;
Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame?
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead!
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed?
(Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave !)
In Him, resentful of another's wrong,
The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too ?

What tho' with War the madding Nations rung, "Peace," when He spoke, was ever on his tongue! Amid the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, Fearless, resolved, and negligently great! In vain malignant vapours gathered round; He walked, erect, on consecrated ground. The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day, Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!

When in retreat He laid his thunder by, For lettered ease and calm Philosophy, Blest were his hours within the silent grove, Where still his god-like Spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, For many a deed, long done in secret there.

1 Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.--BosSUET, Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon,

There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page.
There, listening, sate the hero and the sage ;
And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He died.
Friend of all Human-kind! not here alone
(The voice, that speaks, was not to Thee unknown)
Wilt Thou be missed.-O'er every land and sea
Long, long shall England be revered in Thee!
And, when the Storm is hushed-in distant
years-

Foes on Thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears!

WRITTEN AT DROPMORE,
JULY, 1831.

RENVILLE, to thee my gratitude is

due

For many an hour of studious musing here,

For many a day-dream, such as hovered round Hafiz or Sadi; thro' the golden East,

Search where we would, no fairer bowers than

these,

Thine own creation; where, called forth by thee,
"Flowers worthy of Paradise, with rich inlay,
Broider the ground," and every mountain-pine
Elsewhere unseen (his birth-place in the clouds,
His kindred sweeping with majestic march
From cliff to cliff along the snowy ridge
Of Caucasus, or nearer yet the Moon)
Breathes heavenly music.-Yet much more I owe
For what so few, alas, can hope to share,
Thy converse; when, among thy books reclined,
Or in thy garden-chair that wheels its course

Slowly and silently thro' sun and shade,
Thou speak'st, as ever thou art wont to do,
In the calm temper of philosophy;

-Still to delight, instruct, whate'er the theme.

WRITTEN AT STRATHFIELD SAYE.1

HESE are the groves a grateful people

gave

For noblest service; and, from age
to age,

May they, to such as come with listening ear,
Relate the story! Sacred is their shade;
Sacred the calm they breathe-oh, how unlike
What in the field 'twas His so long to know;
Where many a mournful, many an anxious thought,2
Troubling, perplexing, on his weary mind

Preyed, ere to arms the morning-trumpet called;
Where, till the work was done and darkness fell,
Blood ran like water, and, go where thou wouldst
Death in thy path-way met thee, face to face.

For on, regardless of himself, He went; And, by no change elated or depressed, Fought, till he won th' imperishable wreath, Leading the conquerors captive; on he went, Bating nor heart nor hope, whoe'er opposed; The greatest warriors, in their turn, appearing; The last that came, the greatest of them all— One scattering hosts as born but to subdue, And even in bondage withering hearts with fear.

1 [Entitled in ed. 1839, "An Inscription, 18-." Probably written on visiting the Duke of Wellington in 1838.]

2 How strange, said he to me, are the impressions that sometimes follow a battle! After the battle of Assaye I slept in a farm-house, and so great had been the slaughter that whenever I awoke, which I did continually through the night, it struck me that I had lost all my friends, nor could I bring myself to think otherwise till morning came, and one by one I saw those that were living.

When such the service, what the recompense? Yet, and I err not, a renown as fair, And fairer still, awaited him at home; Where to the last, day after day, he stood,

The party-zeal, that round him raged, restraining; -His not to rest, while his the strength to serve.1

WRITTEN IN JULY, 1834.

REY, thou hast served, and well, the sacred Cause

That Hampden, Sidney died for. Thou hast stood,

Scorning all thought of Self, from first to last,

1 On Friday, the 19th of November, 1830, there was an assembly at Bridgewater-House, a house which has long ceased to be, and of which no stone is now resting on another. It was there that I saw a Lady whose beauty was the least of her attractions, and she said, "I never see you now."-" When may I come?"-"Come on Sunday at Five."-" At Five then you shall see me."-"Remember Five." And through the evening, wherever I went, a voice followed me, repeating in a tone of mock solemnity, "Remember Five!"It was the voice of one who had overheard us; and little did he think what was to take place at Five.

On Sunday when the time drew near, it struck me as I was leaving Lord Holland's, in Burlington Street, that I had some engagement, so little had I thought of it, and I repaired to the house, No. 4, in Carlton Gardens. There were the Duke of Wellington's horses at the door, and I said, "The Duke is here."-"But you are expected, Sır."-I went in and found him sitting with the lady of the house, the lady who had made the appointment, nor was it long before he spoke as follows:

"They want me to place myself at the head of a Faction, but I tell them that I never will.

"To-morrow I shall give up my Office and go down into my County to restore order there, if I can restore it. When I return, I shall take my place in Parliament-to approve when I can approve; and, when I cannot, to say so. I have now served my country forty years -twenty in the field and ten, if not more, in the Cabinet; nor, while I live, shall I be found wanting, wherever I may be. But never, no never, will I place myself at the head of a Faction."

Having met Lord Grey who was to succeed him in his office again and again under my roof, and knowing our intimacy, he meant that these words should be repeated to him; and so they were, word for word, on that very night.

"To the last," said Lord Grey," he fulfilled his promise."