Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given : THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. Born 1800. Died 1859. THE SPEECH OF ICILIUS. W, by your children's cradles, now by your father's Now, graves, Be men to day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves! For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed? For this was the great vengeance wrought on Tarquin's evil seed? For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire? No crier to the polling summons the eager throng; No tribune breathes the word of might that guards the weak from wrong. Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will. Riches, and lands, and power, and state-ye have them :-keep them still. Still keep the holy fillets; still keep the purple gown, The axes, and the curule chair, the car, and laurel crown: won. Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure, Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate, Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold, The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife, That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame, Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair, dare. From Lays of Ancient Rome. LINES WRITTEN AFTER HIS DEFEAT AT THE EDINBURGH ELECTION. JUNE 30, 1847. 'HE day of tumult, strife, defeat was o'er, THE Worn out with toil and noise and scorn and spleen, I slumbered, and in slumber saw once more A room in an old mansion, long unseen. That room, methought, was curtained from the light, Full on a cradle, where, in linen white, Sleeping life's first soft sleep, an infant lay. And lo! the fairy queens, who rule our birth, Drew nigh to bless that new-born baby's doom. With noiseless steps that left no trace on earth, From gloom they came, to vanish into gloom. Scarce deigning on the boy a glance to cast, Swept careless by the gorgeous queen of Gain. More careless still the queen of Fashion passed, With mincing gait, and sneer of cold disdain. The queen of Power tossed high her jewelled head, The queen of Pleasure on the pillow shed Scarce one stray rose-leaf from her fragrant crown. Still fay in long procession followed fay, And still the little couch remained unblest. Oh, lovely lady, with the eyes of light, And laurels clustering round thy lofty brow, Who by the cradle's side didst watch that night, Warbling a low sweet music, who wast thou ? 'Yes, darling, let them go,' so ran the strain, 'Yes, let them go, Youth, Pleasure, Fashion, Power, And all the busy elves to whose domain Belong the nether aim, the fleeting hour. 'Without one envious sigh, one anxious scheme 'In the dark hour of shame I deigned to stand 'I brought the wise and good of ancient days To cheer the cell where Raleigh pined alone; I lightened Milton's darkness with the blaze Of the bright ranks that guard the eternal throne. 'And even so, my child, it is my pleasure That thou not then alone should'st feel me nigh, When in domestic bliss or studious leisure The weeks uncounted go, uncounted fly. 'No, when on restless night dawns cheerless morrow, When weary soul, and wasting body pine, Thine am I still, in sickness and in sorrow, In conflict, obloquy, want, exile, thine. 'Thine when on mountain heights the snowbirds scream, When more than Thulè's winter barbs the breeze, When scarce through low'ring clouds one sickly beam Lights the drear May-day of Antarctic seas. 'Thine when around thy litter's track all day 'Thine most, when friends turn pale and traitors fly, 'Amidst the din of all things fell and vile, 'Yes; they will pass away! nor deem it strange; T EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE. 'O my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, |