How shall I praise thee, Caesar? Thou art he,
Through whom all Europe's greatness came to be
And the world's central crime is thy swift death.
And thou too, Cicero! the voice of Rome!
The listening world is thy perpetual home:
Earth's plain, thy floor; the embracing sky, thy dome.
No greater things than these, great history saith:
Caesarian sword, and Ciceronian breath.
You were no friends: but you are brothers now:
Equal, the laurels on each victor's brow:
Triumphing generations throng each car.
This night, I hear those measured tides of sound,
Surging above that crownless king discrowned,
Dead on that sacred senatorial ground:
Low in the dark hangs, burning from afar,
With pale and solemn fires, the Julian Star.
1889
THE TROOPSHIP.
At early morning, clear and cold,
Still in her English harbour lay
The long, white ship: while winter gold
Shone pale upon her outward way.
Slowly she moved, slowly she stirred,
Stately and slow, she went away:
Sounds of farewell, the harbour heard;
Music on board began to play.
Old, homely airs were thine, great ship!
Breaking from laughter into tears:
And through them all good fellowship
Spoke of a trust beyond all fears.
Still, as the gray mists gathered round,
Embracing thee, concealing thine;
Still, faintly from the Outward Bound
Came melodies of Auld Lang Syne.
Oh, sad to part! Oh, brave to go
Between the Piers of Hercules,
And through the seas of fame, and so
Meet eastern sun on eastern seas!
O richly laden! swiftly bear,
And surely, thy two thousand men;
Till round them burn the Indian air:
And English lips will hail them then.