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The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid,
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown; Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallowed mould below: Proud names ! who once the reins of empire held, In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; Chief's graced with scars and prodigal of blood, Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood, Just men, by whom impartial laws were given, And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven. Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation came a nobler guest, Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.
IS well to see these accidental great,
Noble by birth, or Fortune's favor blind, Gracing themselves in adding grace and state
To the more noble eminence of mind,
1 He was buried in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey, his pall being supported by six noblemen.
And doing homage to a bard
Whose breast by Nature's gems was starred, Whose patent by the hand of God himself was signed.
While monarchs sleep, forgotten, unrevered,
Time trims the lamp of intellectual fame;
Though Homer's tomb was never known,
A mausoleum of his own Long as the world endures his greatness shall proclaim.
What lauding sepulchre does Campbell want ?
'T is his to give, and not derive renown. What monumental bronze or adamant, Like his own deathless lays can hand him down ?
Poets outlast their tombs: the bust
And statue soon revert to dust; The dust they represent still wears the laurel crown.
The solid Abbey walls that seem time-proof,
Formed to await the final day of doom ; The clustered shafts and arch-supported roof, That now enshrine and guard our Campbell's tomb,
Become a ruined, shattered fane,
May fall and bury him again : Yet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall
Methought the monumental effigies
Of elder poets that were grouped around, Leaned from their pedestals with eager eyes,
To peer into the excavated ground
Where lay the gifted, good, and brave,
While earth from Kosciusko’s grave Fell on his coffin-plate with freedom-shrieking sound.
And over him the kindred dust was strewed
Of Poets' Corner. O misnomer strange!
O’er which his spirit wings its flight,
Shedding an intellectual light, A sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change.
Around his grave in radiant brotherhood,
As if to form a halo o'er his head,
To wave each separating plea
Of sect, clime, party, and degree, All honoring him on whom Nature all honors shed.
To me the humblest of the mourning band,
Who knew the bard through many a changeful year, It was a proud sad privilege to stand Beside his grave and shed a parting tear.
Seven lustres had he been my friend,
Be that my plea when I suspend
WALKING THE STREETS OF LONDON.
THROUGH winter streets to steer your course aright,
How to walk clean by day and safe by night;
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice, And “ Clean your shoes !” resounds from every voice;
When late their miry sides stage-coaches show,
Nor should it prove thy less important care, To chose a proper coat for winter's wear. Now in thy trunk thy D’Oily habit fold, The silken drugget ill can fence the cold; The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain, And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain; True Witney broadcloth, with its shag unslorn, Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn : Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear ? Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent, Hands that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent. Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace, Or his deep cloak bespattered o’er with lace.