The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were ringing,
And hope and joy in other hearts were springing;
That House, where Age led in by Filial Love,
Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above,
The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven—
Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven?
Nor at the fragrant hour-at early dawn-
Under the elm-tree on his level lawn,
Or in his porch is he less duly found,
When they that cry for Justice gather round,
And in that cry her sacred voice is drowned;
His then to hear and weigh and arbitrate,
Like ALFRED judging at his palace-gate.
Healed at his touch, the wounds of discord close;
And they return as friends, that came as foes.
Thus, while the world but claims its proper part,
Oft in the head but never in the heart,
His life steals on; within his quiet dwelling
That home-felt joy all other joys excelling.
Sick of the crowd, when enters he—nor then
Forgets the cold indifference of men?
Soon through the gadding vine the sun looks in,
And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin.
Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song,
Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong
Blend as they rise; and (while without are seen,
Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green;
And in from far a school-boy's letter flies,
Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise)
That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it not?)
Born with the day and with the day forgot;
Its ample page various as human life,
The pomp, the woe, the bustle, and the strife!
But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plough
Met and solicited, behold him now
Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew, The sphere that Wisdom loves, and Virtue too; They who subsist not on the vain applause Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws.
'Twas morn-the sky-lark o'er the furrow sung
As from his lips the slow consent was wrung;
As from the glebe his fathers tilled of old,
The plough they guided in an age of gold,
Down by the beech-wood side he turned away :-
And now behold him in an evil day
Serving the State again—not as before,
Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door,-
But in the Senate; and (though round him fly
The jest, the sneer, the subtle sophistry,)
With honest dignity, with manly sense,
every charm of natural eloquence,
Like HAMPDEN struggling in his Country's cause,
The first, the foremost to obey the laws,
The last to brook oppression. On he moves,
Careless of blame while his own heart
Careless of ruin-(" For the general good
'Tis not the first time I shall shed my blood.")
On thro' that gate misnamed, thro' which before
Went Sidney, Russell, Raleigh, Cranmer, More,
Or into twilight within walls of stone,
Then to the place of trial; and alone,
Alone before his judges in array
Stands for his life: there, on that awful day,
Counsel of friends-all human help denied―
All but from her who sits the pen to guide,
Like that sweet Saint who sate by RUSSELL's side
Under the Judgment-seat.
Triumph not always. To his hearth again,
Again with honour to his hearth restored,
Lo, in the accustomed chair and at the board,
Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their claim,
(The lowliest servant calling by his name)
He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all,
All met as at a holy festival!
-On the day destined for his funeral !
Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay,
Breathed in his drowsy ear " Away, away!
Take thou my cloak-Nay, start not, but obey-
Take it and leave me." And the blushing Maid,
Who thro' the streets as thro' a desert strayed;
And, when her dear, dear Father passed along,
Would not be held-but, bursting through the throng,
Halberd and battle-axe-kissed him o'er and o'er ;
Then turned and went-then sought him as before,
Believing she should see his face no more!
And oh, how changed at once-no heroine here,
But a weak woman worn with grief and fear,
Her darling Mother! 'Twas but now she smiled;
And now she weeps upon her weeping child!
-But who sits by, her only wish below
At length fulfilled-and now prepared to go?
His hands on hers—as through the mists of night,
She gazes on him with imperfect sight;
Her glory now, as ever her delight!
To her, methinks, a second Youth is given;
The light upon her face a light from Heaven!
An hour like this is worth a thousand passed
In pomp or ease-'Tis present to the last !
Years glide away untold-'Tis still the same!
As fresh, as fair as on the day it came!
And now once more where most he loved to be,
In his own fields-breathing tranquillity—
We hail him—not less happy, Fox, than thee!
Thee at St. Anne's so soon of Care beguiled,
Playful, sincere, and artless as a child!
Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the spray,
Through the green leaves exploring, day by day.
How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat,
With thee conversing in thy loved retreat,
I saw the sun go down!-Ah, then 'twas thine
Ne'er to forget some volume half divine,
Shakspeare's or Dryden's-thro' the chequered shade
Borne in thy hand behind thee as we strayed;
And where we sate (and many a halt we made)
To read there with a fervour all thy own,
And in thy grand and melancholy tone,
Some splendid passage not to thee unknown,
Fit theme for long discourse-Thy bell has tolled! -But in thy place among us we behold
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