Ah! well, I ween, knew HE what worth is thine,
How deep a debt to thee his genius owed,—
The Statesman, who of late, in life's decline,
Of public care threw off the oppressive load,
While yet his unquench'd spirit gleam'd and glow'd
With the pure light of Greek and Roman song,—
That gift, in boyish years by thee bestow'd,
And cherish'd, lov'd, and unforgotten long, While cares of state press'd round in close continuous throng.
Not unprepared was that majestic mind,
By food and nurture once derived from thee,
To shape and sway the fortunes of mankind;
And by sagacious counsel and decree
Direct and guide Britannia's destiny-
Her mightiest ruler o'er the subject East :
Yet in his heart of hearts no joy had he
So pure, as when, from empire's yoke releas'd,
To thee once more he turned with love that never
Fain would he cast life's fleshly burden down
Where its best hours were spent, and sink to rest,
Weary of greatness, sated with renown,
Like a tired child upon his mother's breast.
Proud may'st thou be of that his fond bequest,
Proud that, within thy consecrated ground,
He sleeps amidst the haunts he lov'd the best;
Where many a well-known, once-familiar sound
Of water, earth, and air for ever breathes around.
Such is thine empire over mightiest souls
Of men who wield earth's sceptres; such thy spell,
Which until death and after death controls
Hearts which no fear could daunt, no force could quell:
What marvel then, if softer spirits dwell
With fondest love on thy remember'd sway?
What marvel, if the hearts of poets swell,
Recording at life's noon, with grateful lay,
How sweetly in thy shades its morning slipp'd away?
Such tribute paid thee once, in pensive strains,
ONE mighty in the realm of lyric song,-
A ceaseless wanderer through the wide domains
Of thought, which to the studious soul belong ;-
One far withdrawn from this world's busy throng,
And seeking still, in academic bowers,
A safe retreat from tumult, strife, and wrong;
Where, solacing with verse his lonely hours,
He wove these fragrant wreaths of amaranthine
flowers.
To him, from boyhood to life's latest hour,
The passion, kindled first beside the shore
Of thine own Thames, retained its early power.
'Twas his with restless footsteps to explore
All depths of ancient and of modern lore;
With unabated love to feed the eye
Of silent thought on the exhaustless store
Of beauty, which the gifted may descry
In all the teeming land of fruitful phantasy.
To him the Grecian muse, devoutly woo'd,
Unveil'd her beauty, and entranced his ear,
In many a wrapt imaginative mood,
With harmony which only poets hear
Even in that old enchanted atmosphere:
To him the painter's and the sculptor's art
Disclosed those hidden glories, which appear
To the clear vision of the initiate heart
In contemplation calm, from worldly care apart.
Nor lack'd he the profounder, purer sense
Of beauty, in the face of Nature seen;
But loved the mountain's rude magnificence,
The valley's glittering brooks, and pastures greer,
Moonlight and morn, and sunset's golden sheen,
The stillness and the storm of lake and sea,
The hedgerow elms, with grass-grown lanes between,
The winding footpath, the broad bowery tree,
The deep, clear river's course, majestically free.
Such were his haunts in recreative hours,
To such he fondly turn'd, from time to time,
From Granta's cloister'd courts, and gloomy towers,
And stagnant Camus' circumambient slime;
Well pleased o'er Cambria's mountain-peaks to climb,
Or, with a larger, more adventurous range,
Plant his bold steps on Alpine's heights sublime, And gaze on Nature's wonders vast and strange; Then roam through the rich South with swift and ceaseless change.
Yet with his settled and habitual mood Accorded better the green English vale, The pastoral mead, the cool sequester'd wood, The spacious park fenced in with rustic pale, The pleasant interchange of hill and dale, The church-yard darken'd by the yew-tree's shade, And rich with many a rudely sculptured tale Of friends beneath its turf sepulchral laid, Of human tears that flow, of earthly hopes that fade.
Such were the daily scenes with which he fed
The pensive spirit first awoke by thee;
And blest and blameless was the life he led,
Sooth'd by the gentle spells of poesy.
Nor yet averse to stricter thought was he,
Nor uninstructed in abstruser lore;
But now, with draughts of pure philosophy
Quench'd his soul's thirst,- -now ventured to ex
The fields by science own'd, and taste the fruits they bore.
With many a graceful fold of learned thought
He wrapp'd himself around, well pleased to shroud His spirit in the web itself had wrought,
From the rude pressure of the boisterous crowd:
Nor loftier purpose cherish'd or avow'd,
Nor claim'd the prophet's or the teacher's praise;
Content in studious ease to be allow'd
With nice artistic craft to weave his lays,
And lose himself at will in song's melodious maze.
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