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Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given :
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,
Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

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?
For this did Scævola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire?
Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den?
Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?
Oh for that ancient spirit which curbed the Senate's will!
Oh for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill!
In those brave days our fathers stood firmly side by side;
They faced the Marcian fury; they tamed the Fabian pride;
They drove the fiercest Quinctius an outcast forth from Rome ;
They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.
But what their care bequeathed us our madness flung away:
All the ripe fruit of threescore years was blighted in a day.
Exult, ye proud Patricians! The hard-fought fight is o'er.
We strove for honours-'twas in vain for freedom-'tis no more.

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:
Still press us for your cohorts, and, when the fight is done,
Still fill your garners from the soil which our good swords have

won.

Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure,
Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the poor.
Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore;
Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore;
No fire when Tiber freezes; no air in dog-star heat;
And store of rods for free-born backs, and holes for free-born
feet.

Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate,
Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate.
But, by the shades beneath us, and by the Gods above,
Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love!
Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs
From Consuls, and High Pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings?
Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet,
Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering
street,

Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold,
And breathe of Capuan odours, and shine with Spanish gold?
Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life-

The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife,
The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures,
The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours.
Still let the maiden's beauty swell the father's breast with pride;
Still let the bridegroom's arms enfold an unpolluted bride.
Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,

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,
And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched

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,
Yet through the curtain shone the moon's cold ray,

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,
And o'er her shoulder threw a wrathful frown.

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.
But when those wayward sprites had passed away,
Came one, the last, the loveliest and the best.

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
The nether aim, the fleeting hour resign;
Mine is the world of thought, the world of dream,
Mine all the past, and all the future mine.

'In the dark hour of shame I deigned to stand
Beside the frowning peers at Bacon's side;
On a far shore I smoothed with tender hand,
Through months of pain, the sleepless bed of Hyde;

'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 Thule'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
White sandhills shall reflect the blinding glare;
Or, when through forests, breathing death, thy way
All night shall wind by many a tiger's lair.

"Thine most, when friends turn pale and traitors fly,
When, hard beset, thy spirit justly proud,
For truth, peace, freedom, mercy, dares defy
A sullen priesthood, or a raging crowd.

'Amidst the din of all things fell and vile,
Hate's yell, and Envy's hiss, and Folly's bray,
Remember me, and with an untaught smile,
See riches, baubles, flatterers, pass away.

'Yes; they will pass away! nor deem it strange;
They come and go, as comes and goes the sea;
And let them come and go; thou, through all change,
Fix thy firm gaze on virtue, and on me.'

T

EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE.

my true king I offered free from stain

Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
For him I languished in a foreign clime,
Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime ;
Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,

And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
Each morning started from the dream to weep;
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
The resting-place I asked, an early grave.

Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
From that proud country which was once mine own,

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