AT HURSLEY IN MARDEN

We count him wise,

Timoleon, who in Syracuse laid down

That gleaming bait of all men's eyes,

And for his cottage changed the invidious crown;

Moving serenely through his grayhair'd day

‘ Mid vines and olives gray.

He also, whom

The load of double empire, half the world

His own, within a living tomb

Press'd down at Yuste,— Spain's great banner furl'd

His winding-sheet around him,— while he strove

The impalpable Above

Though mortal yet,

To breathe, is blazon'd on the sages’ roll:—

High soaring hearts, who could forget

The sceptre, to the hermitage of the soul

Retired, sweet solitudes of the musing eye,

And let the world go by!

There, if the cup

Of Time, that brims ere we can reach repose,

Fill'd slow, the soul might summon up

The strenuous heat of youth, the silenced foes;

The deeds of fame, star-bright above the throne;

The better deeds unknown.

There, when the cloud

Eased its dark breast in thunder, and the light

Ran forth, their hearts recall the loud

Hoarse onset roar, the flashing of the fight;

Those other clouds piled-up in white array

Whence deadlier lightnings play.

There, when the seas

Murmur at midnight, and the dome is clear,

And from their seats in heaven the breeze

Loosens the stars, to blaze and disappear,

And such as Glory!... with a sigh suppress'd

They smile, and turn to rest.

— But he, who here

Unglorious hides, untrain'd, unwilling Lord,

The phantom king of half a year,

From England's throne push'd by the bloodless sword,

Unheirlike heir to that colossal fame;—

How should men name his name,

How rate his worth

With those heroic ones who, life's labour done,

Mark'd out their six-foot couch of earth,

The laurell'd rest of manhood's battle won?

— Not so with him!... Yet, ere we turn away,

A still small voice will say,

By other rule

Than man's coarse glory-test does God bestow

His crowns: exalting oft the fool,

So deem'd, and the world-hero levelling low.

— And he, who from the palace pass'd obscure,

And honourably poor,

Spurning a throne

Held by blood-tenure,‘ gainst a nation's will;

Lived on his narrow fields alone,

Content life's common service to fulfil;

Not careful of a carnage-bought renown,

Or that precarious crown:—

Him count we wise,

Him also! though the chorus of the throng

Be silent: though no pillar rise

In slavish adulation of the strong:—

But here, from blame of tongues and fame aloof,

‘ Neath a low chancel roof,

— The peace of God,—

He sleeps: unconscious hero! Lowly grave

By village-footsteps daily trod

Unconscious: or while silence holds the nave,

And the bold robin comes, when day is dim,

And pipes his heedless hymn.