THE "good old times"-all times when old are good- Are gone; the present might be if they would; Great things have been, and are, and greater still Want little of mere mortals but their will;
A wider space, a greener field is given
To those who play their "tricks before high heaven." I know not if the angels weep, but men
Have wept enough-for what?—to weep again.'
All is exploded-be it good or bad.
Reader! remember when thou wert a lad,
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much,
rival almost deemed him such.
We, we have seen the intellectual race Of Giants stand, like Titans, face to face- Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea
Of eloquence between, which flowed all free, As the deep billows of the Ægean roar Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore.
But where are they-the rivals ?-a few feet Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet.
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old Of "Dust to dust;" but half its tale untold Time tempers not its terrors-still the worm Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form Varied above, but still alike below;
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea O'er which from empire she lured Anthony; Though Alexander's urn a show be grown
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown— How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear. He wept for worlds to conquer-half the earth Knows not his name, or but his death and birth
And desolation; while his native Greece Hath all of desolation, save its peace.
He "wept for worlds to conquer !" he who ne'er Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare!
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown,
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne.
But where is he, the modern, mightier far, Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car; The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings,
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, And spurn the dust o'er which they crawled of late, Chained to the chariot of the chieftain's state?
Yes? where is he, the Champion and the Child
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild?
Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones ? Whose table earth-whose dice were human bones?
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle,
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile.
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage; Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations; Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, O'er curtailed dishes and o'er stinted wines; O'er petty quarrels upon petty things.
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings?
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, A surgeon's statement and an earl's harangues! A bust delayed, a book refused, can shake The sleep of him who kept the world awake. Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great, Now slave of all could teaze or irritate- The paltry jailer and the prying spy, The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great ; How low, how little was this middle state, Between a prison and a palace, where How few could feel for what he had to bear! Vain his complaint,-my lord presents his bill, His food and wine were doled out duly still: Vain was his sickness, never was a clime
So free from homicide-to doubt's a crime;
And the stiff Surgeon, who maintained his cause,
Hath lost his place, and gained the world's applause. 80
But smile-though all the pangs of brain and heart Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art;
Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, None stand by his low bed-though even the mind Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind; Smile-for the fettered Eagle breaks his chain, And higher worlds than this are his again.
How, if that soaring Spirit still retain A conscious twilight of his blazing reign,
How must he smile, on looking down, to see The little that he was and sought to be! What though his name a wider empire found Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound; Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, He tasted empire's blessings and its curse; Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape; How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave! What though his jailer, duteous to the last, Scarce deemed the coffin's lead could keep him fast, Refusing one poor line along the lid
To date the birth and death of all it hid, That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, A talisman to all save him who bore:
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast; When victory's Gallic column shall but rise, Like Pompey's pillar, in a desart's skies,
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust
Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust,
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