And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home, All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man,— To desolation swept, retired in pride, Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn, But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair He looked, which down from higher regions came, The nations gazed, and wondered much and praised. Critics before him fell in humble plight; Confounded fell; and made debasing signs To catch his eye; and stretched and swelled themselves Great man! the nations gazed and wondered much, And praised; and many called his evil good. Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness; Of fame; drank deeply, deeply drank; drank draughts -Robert Pollock. To the Duke of Wellington.--The Warden of the Cinque Ports. A MIST was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window panes, and floor and panel, It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe and Dover Were all alert that day, To see the French war steamers speeding over Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance THE Napoleon. HERE sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, One moment of the mightiest, and again Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became O more or less than man-in high or low, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star. Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all enduring eye When fortune fled her spoiled and favorite child, He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them Ambition steeled thee on too far to show That just habitual scorn which could contemn Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turned unto thine overthrow; 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose; So hath it proved to thee, and all such lots who choose. If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock; But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, Their admiration thy best weapon shone; For sceptered cynics earth were far too wide a den. But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire; Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. This makes the madman who have made men mad By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool; Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule. Their breath is agitation, and their life He who ascends to mountain tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Round him on icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. -Lord Byron. Emmet's Epitaph. [Robert Emmet, the celebrated Irish revolutionist, at his trial for high treason, which resulted in his conviction and execution, September 20, 1803, made an eloquent and pathetic defence, concluding with these words. "Let there be no inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my epitaph. Let my character and my motives repose in security and peace till other times and other men can do them justice. Then shall my character be vindicated; then may my epitaph be written. I have done." It was immediately upon reading this speech that the following lines were written:] ET no man write my epitaph; let my grave "LE Be uninscribed, and let my memory rest Till other times are come, and other men, Who then may do me justice." Emmet, no! No withering curse hath dried my spirit up, That I should now be silent-that my soul Should from the stirring inspiration shrink, |