While others, from the Greek and Roman page,
Declare the prudent councils of the sage;
Or, in recital of achievements bold,
Retrace the motives and the deeds of old,
I, in the accents of my native clime,
And, at the moment, shaking hands with Time,
I, whom our recent loss forbids to roam,
Shall plant my mourning standard nearer home!
At the sad shrine where gallant Nelson sleeps,
Where Britain bends her lofty head and weeps,
Deeply lamenting that she cannot prove,
The fond excess of dearly purchas'd love. Is there a callous mind, that does not feel
An anxious interest in the public weal!
Is there a heart that pities not the brave!
To whom luxuriant laurels hide the grave!
A grief unwing'd, yet unconsol'd by pride!
A tongue that said not, when our hero died,
While bitter tears that glorious loss deplore,
The man who lov'd his country is no more?
No! in each eye the glowing trophies fade;
Each sign of triumph seems a vain parade!
The aching sigh to conquering shouts succeeds,
And Victory assumes a widow's weeds. Some wily chieftain, building up a name,
May fight for immortality and fame;
Time may embalm his valour, or his art,
And History shew the coldness of a heart,
Which, emulous of grandeur and a throne,
Acts for itself, "its own low self" alone;
And, in the inner chambers of the mind,
Broods over plans to subjugate mankind:
There fondly bends each nation to his sway,
That he may rule, and all beside obey.
Haply the mighty fabric may arise,
Vast in its bulk, and aiming at the skies,
Till Wisdom, viewing the enormous pile,
Admires the madness of a man the while,
Who labours with incessant toil and skill;
To feed Ambition, discontented still;
And for that serpent in his bosom curl'd,
Erects a temple fit to hold the world! Though such a chief a deathless wreath may crown,
Though he may win a sterile, hard renown,
His name shall ne'er a sudden glow impart,
Nor make the tear of admiration start;
Ne'er in his plaudits shall warm blessings join!
None cry, "The triumph of that man is mine!"
But, when his greatness crumbles in the dust,
Coldly exclaim, "Lo! Providence is just!"
Far different is the patriot warrior's lot!
He may in Time's long journey be forgot;
Though many generations shall decay,
Ere England's love to Nelson wears away!
But if at length successive years should cast
The mist of distance upon ages past,
And fathers what themselves have witness'd tell,
Of those who yet shall serve their country well—
Memory and Knowledge shall dispel the gloom,
And shed strong light on every honour'd tomb—
To lift the spirit when our courage fail,
When worth departed, future ages hail! And ye, compeers, who in the classic page,
Do homage to the hero and the sage,
Whose hearts at base and cruel actions bleed,
But rise triumphant at a noble deed—
Forbear from Duty's anxious side to stray,
But follow bravely when she leads the way;
Follow with head and heart, as Nelson fought;
Be vigilant like him in act and thought;
Then, as the lark mounts upwards in the skies,
Early in life's fair morning will you rise,
Expand bold pinions nearest to the sun,
And claim the meed of glory fairly won.

XXII.

TO THE HETMAN, PLATOFF.

————

O ancient warrior! as we hail thee, And behold thy cordial smile, We hope that greetings ne'er may fail thee, Such as those of Britain's isle. They are, although so seeming rude, Given only where we think them due; Most courteous, e'en when they intrude, Too vehement, but always true! Applauses which no art can fashion, Which speak the feelings and no more; Which give respect the glow of passion, When worth and valour we adore; Blest is the hero in receiving! And pride may scoff at, or despise, What if but once sincere believing, Is grateful to the good and wise.

XXIII.

On the Death of Master Frederic Thomson.

1810.

————

In the first dawn of youth I much admire
The lively boy of ruddy countenance,
Strong-built, and bold, and hardy, with black hair,
And dark brown eye, contrasting its blue-white,
Somewhat abruptly; save in the bright hour
Of inward passion, or of sudden joy;
When, as a monarch, gracious and renown'd,
Amid a crowd of subjects, diverse all,
Thrills with one deep, soft feeling every heart;
Or, as the sun throws his pervading beams
At once on bleak harsh mountains and the sky;
The soul, by union of its light and heat,
Clears and irradiates all, and gives to strength
A mellow sweetness; hues late undefin'd
Grow more intense, or, if discordant, lose
Their coarseness, and become diaphanous.
This I admire, but still methinks I look
With a serener pleasure on the head
Crested by flaxen curls; or where soft locks,
Like to long coiling leaves that lose their edge,
Shine silken on the cheek, and parting smooth
Above a fair and modest countenance,
Harmonize with its pure, its tender bloom.
Still lovelier when with that infusion sweet
Of saint or angel spirit, resident
In the calm circle of a blue eye fring'd
With sable lashes! I remember once
A face like this, ere sickness took away
Its freshness, in whose looks there also dwelt,
If one may speak it of a thing so young,
And not subdue our warm belief to say
The prophecy of all these qualities,
Refinement, gentleness, and mild resolve;
Fitted to stem the evil of this world,
And hold with patient intrepidity,
The shield of calm resistance to its power.
It seem'd as if no anger e'er could dwell
Within his bosom; no blind prejudice
Distract his judgment; and no folly call
For a reproof: as if Affection were
Too soon allied to Thought, and tempered so
His morning, that the ministry of Time,
The chast'ning trial of Remorse and Grief,
And of stern Disappointment, all were spar'd.