And o'er the altered scene Calantha's eye
Roves listless—yet Time's Great the passers by!
Along the road still fleet the men whose names
Live in the talk the moment's glory claims.
There, for the hot Pancratia of Debate
Pass the keen wrestlers for that palm,—the State.
Now, "on his humble but his faithful steed,"
Sir Robert rides—he never rides at speed—
Careful his seat, and circumspect his gaze;
And still the cautious trot the cautious mind betrays.
Wise is thy heed!—how stout soe'er his back,
Thy weight has oft proved fatal to thy hack![G]
Next, with loose rein and careless canter view
Our man of men, the Prince of Waterloo;
O'er the firm brow the hat as firmly press'd,
The firm shape rigid in the button'd vest;
Within—the iron which the fire has proved,
And the close Sparta of a mind unmoved!
Not his the wealth to some large natures lent,
Divinely lavish, even where misspent,
That liberal sunshine of exuberant soul,
Thought, sense, affection, warming up the whole;
The heat and affluence of a genial power,
Rank in the weed as vivid in the flower;
Hush'd at command his veriest passions halt,
Drill'd is each virtue, disciplined each fault;
Warm if his blood—he reasons while he glows,
Admits the pleasure—ne'er the folly knows;
If Vulcan for our Mars a snare had set,
He had won the Venus, but escaped the net;
His eye ne'er wrong, if circumscribed the sight,
Widen the prospect and it ne'er is right,
Seen through the telescope of habit still,
States seem a camp, and all the world—a drill!
Yet oh, how few his faults, how pure his mind,
Beside his fellow-conquerors of mankind;
How knightly seems the iron image, shown
By Marlborough's tomb, or lost Napoleon's throne!
Cold if his lips, no smile of fraud they wear,
Stern if his heart, still "Man" is graven there;
No guile—no crime his step to greatness made,
No freedom trampled, and no trust betray'd;
The eternal "I" was not his law—he rose
Without one art that honour might oppose,
And leaves a human, if a hero's, name,
To curb ambition while it lights to fame.
But who, scarce less by every gazer eyed,
Walks yonder, swinging with a stalwart stride?
With that vast bulk of chest and limb assign'd
So oft to men who subjugate their kind;
So sturdy Cromwell push'd broad-shoulder'd on;
So burly Luther breasted Babylon;
So brawny Cleon bawl'd his Agora down;
And large-limb'd Mahmoud clutch'd a Prophet's crown!
Ay, mark him well! the schemer's subtle eye,
The stage-mime's plastic lip your search defy—
He, like Lysander, never deems it sin
To eke the lion's with the fox's skin;
Vain every mesh this Proteus to enthrall,
He breaks no statute, and he creeps through all;—
First to the mass that valiant truth to tell,
"Rebellion's art is never to rebel,—
Elude all danger but defy all laws,"—
He stands himself the Safe Sublime he draws!
In him behold all contrasts which belong
To minds abased, but passions roused, by wrong;
The blood all fervour, and the brain all guile,
The patriot's bluntness, and the bondsman's wile.
One after one the lords of time advance,—
Here Stanley meets,—how Stanley scorns, the glance!
The brilliant chief, irregularly great,
Frank, haughty, rash,—the Rupert of Debate;
Nor gout, nor toil, his freshness can destroy,
And Time still leaves all Eton in the boy;—
First in the class, and keenest in the ring,
He saps like Gladstone, and he fights like Spring;
Ev'n at the feast, his pluck pervades the board,
And dauntless game-cocks symbolize their lord.
Lo where atilt at friend—if barr'd from foe—
He scours the ground, and volunteers the blow,
And, tired with conquest over Dan and Snob,
Plants a sly bruiser on the nose of Bob;
Decorous Bob, too friendly to reprove,
Suggests fresh fighting in the next remove,
And prompts his chum, in hopes the vein to cool,
To the prim benches of the Upper School:
Yet who not listens, with delighted smile,
To the pure Saxon of that silver style;
In the clear style a heart as clear is seen,
Prompt to the rash—revolting from the mean.
Next cool, and all unconscious of reproach,
Comes the calm "Johnny who upset the coach."[H]
How form'd to lead, if not too proud to please,—
His fame would fire you, but his manners freeze.
Like or dislike, he does not care a jot;
He wants your vote, but your affection not;
Yet human hearts need sun, as well as oats,
So cold a climate plays the deuce with votes.—
And while his doctrines ripen day by day,
His frost-nipp'd party pines itself away;—
From the starved wretch its own loved child we steal—
And "Free Trade" chirrups on the lap of Peel![I]—
But see our statesman when the steam is on,
And languid Johnny glows to glorious John!
When Hampden's thought, by Falkland's muses dress'd,
Lights the pale cheek, and swells the generous breast;
When the pent heat expands the quickening soul,—
And foremost in the race the wheels of genius roll!
VII.
What gives the Past the haunting charms that please
Sage, scholar, bard?—The shades of men like these!
Seen in our walks;—with vulgar blame or praise,
Reviled or worshipp'd as our faction sways:
Some centuries hence, and from that praise or blame,
As light from vapour, breaks the steady flame,
And the trite Present which, while acted, seems
Time's dullest prose,—fades in the land of dreams,
Gods spring from dust, and Hero-Worship wakes
Out of that Past the humble Present makes.
And yet, what matter to ourselves the Great?
What the heart touches—that controls our fate!
From the full galaxy we turn to one,
Dim to all else, but to ourselves the sun;
And still, to each, some poor, obscurest life,
Breathes all the bliss, or kindles all the strife.
Wake up the countless dead!—ask every ghost
Whose influence tortured or consoled the most:
How each pale spectre of the host would turn
From the fresh laurel and the glorious urn,
To point where rots beneath a nameless stone,
Some heart in which had ebb'd and flow'd its own!
So one by one, Calantha listlessly
Beheld and heeded not the Great pass by.
But now, why sudden that electric start?
She stands—the pale lips soundless, yet apart!
She stands, with claspèd hands and strainèd eye—
A moment's silence—one convulsive cry,
And sinking to the earth, a seeming death
Smites into chill suspense the senses and the breath:
Quick by the unconscious hostess knelt the guest,
Bathed the wan brows, and loosed the stifling vest;
As loosed the vest,—like one whose sleep of fear
Is keen with dreams that warn of danger near,—
Calantha's hand repell'd the friendly care,
And faintly clasp'd some token hoarded there,
Perchance some witness of the untold grief,—
Some sainted relic of a lost belief,
Some mournful talisman, whose touch recalls
The ghost of time in Memory's desolate halls,
And, like the vessels that, of old, enshrined
The soil of lands the exile left behind,—
Holds all youth rescues from that native shore
Of hope and passion, life shall tread no more.