Comes from the heart; and who confesses not
Its voice as sacred, nay almost divine,
When inly it declares on what we do,
Blaming, approving? Let an erring world
Judge as it will, we care not while we stand
Acquitted there; and oft, when clouds on clouds
Compass us round and not a track appears,
Oft is an upright heart the surest guide,
Surer and better than the subtlest head;
Still with its silent counsels thro' the dark
Onward and onward leading.
THIS Child, so lovely and so cherub-like,
(No fairer spirit in the heaven of heavens)
Say, must he know remorse? Must Passion come,
Passion in all or any of its shapes,
To cloud and sully what is now so pure?
Yes, come it must. For who, alas! has lived,
Nor in the watches of the night recalled
Words he has wished unsaid and deeds undone?
Yes, come it must. But if, as we may hope,
He learns ere long to discipline his mind,
And onward goes, humbly and cheerfully,
Assisting them that faint, weak though he be,
And in his trying hours trusting in God-
Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still;
For what was Innocence will then be Virtue.
OH, if the Selfish knew how much they lost,
What would they not endeavour, not endure,
To imitate, as far as in them lay,
Him who his wisdom and his power employs
In making others happy!
HENCE to the Altar and with Her thou lov'st,
With Her who longs to strew thy way with flowers;
Nor lose the blessed privilege to give
Birth to a Race immortal as Yourselves.
Which trained by you, shall make a Heaven on Earth, And tread the path that leads from Earth to Heaven.*
IF Day reveals such wonders by her Light,
What by her Darkness cannot Night reveal?
For at her bidding when She mounts her throne
The Heavens unfold, and from the depths of Space
Sun beyond Sun, as when called forth they came,
Each with the worlds that round him rolled rejoicing,
Sun beyond Sun in numbers numberless
Shine with a radiance that is all their own!
*[These six lines are the last addition which Mr. Rogers made to his published poems. They were written in 1853. -ED.]
WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 203
I SAID to Time, "This venerable pile,
Its floor the earth, its roof the firmament,
Whose was it once?" He answered not, but fled
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.*
OCTOBER 10, 1806.
WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.+
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,
*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.
WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Still, like an awful Dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle,
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! *
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.
* Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.-BOSSUET. Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon.
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. 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 yearsFoes on Thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears!
GRENVILLE, 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,
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