VI.

It was a noon of summer in its glow,

And all was life, but London's life, below;

As by the open casement half reclined

Calantha's languid form;— a gentle wind

Brought to her cheek a bloom unwonted there,

And stirr'd the light wave of the golden hair.

Hers was a beauty that made sad the eye,

Lovely in fading, like a twilight sky;

The shape so finely, delicately frail,

As form'd for climes unruffled by a gale;

The lustrous eye, through which looks forth the soul,

Bright and more brightly as it nears the goal;

The fever'd counterfeit of healthful bloom,

The rose so living yet so near the tomb;

The veil the Funeral Genius lends his bride,

When, fair as Love, he steals her to his side,

And leads her on till at the nuptial porch,

He murmurs, “Know me now!” and lowers the torch.

What made more sad the outward form's decay,

A soul of genius glimmer'd through the clay;

Oft through the languor of disease would break

That life of light Parnassian dreamers seek;

And music trembled on each aspen leaf

Of the boughs drooping o'er the fount of grief.

Genius has so much youth no care can kill;

Death seems unnatural when it sighs — “Be still.”

That wealth, which Nature prodigally gave,

Shall Life but garner for its heir the Grave?

What noble hearts that treasure might have bless'd!

How large the realm that mind should have possess'd!

Love in the wife, and wisdom in the friend,

And earnest purpose for a generous end,

And glowing sympathy for thoughts of power

And playful fancy for the lighter hour;

All lost, all cavern'd in the sunless gloom

Of some dark memory, beetling o'er the tomb;—

Like bright-wing'd fairies, whom the hostile gnome

Has spell'd and dungeon'd in his rocky home,

The wanderer hears the solitary moan,

Nor dreams the fairy in the sullen stone.

Contrasting this worn frame and weary breast,

Fresh as a morn of April bloom'd the guest:

April has tears, and mists the morn array;

The mists foretell the sun,— the tears the May.

Lo, as from care to care the soother glides,

How the home brightens where the heart presides!

Now hovering, bird-like, o'er the flowers,— at times

Pausing to chant Calantha's favourite rhymes,

Or smooth the uneasy pillow with light hand;

Or watch the eye, forestalling the demand,

Complete in every heavenly art — above

All, save the genius of inventive love.

The window open'd on that breadth of green,

To half the pomp of elder days the scene.

Gaze to thy left — there the Plantagenet

Look'd on the lists for Norman knighthood set;

Bright issued forth, where yonder archway glooms,

Banner and trump, and steed, and waves of plumes,

As with light heart rides wanton Anne to brave

Tudor's grim love, the purple and the grave.

Gaze to the right, where now — neat, white, and low,

The modest Palace looks like Brunswick Row;

There, echoed once the merriest orgies known,

Since the frank Norman won grave Harold's throne;

There, bloom'd the mulberry groves, beneath whose shade

His easy loves the royal Rowley made;

Where Villiers flaunted, and where Sedley sung,

And wit's loose diamonds dropp'd from Wilmot's tongue!

All at rest now — all dust!— wave flows on wave;

But the sea dries not!— what to us the grave?

It brings no real homily, we sigh,

Pause for awhile and murmur, “All must die!”

Then rush to pleasure, action, sin once more,

Swell the loud tide, and fret unto the shore.

And o'er the altered scene Calantha's eye

Roves listless — yet Time's Great the passers by!

Along the road still fleet the men whose names

Live in the talk the moment's glory claims.

There, for the hot Pancratia of Debate

Pass the keen wrestlers for that palm,— the State.

Now, “on his humble but his faithful steed,”

Sir Robert rides — he never rides at speed —

Careful his seat, and circumspect his gaze;

And still the cautious trot the cautious mind betrays.

Wise is thy heed!— how stout soe'er his back,

Thy weight has oft proved fatal to thy hack!

Next, with loose rein and careless canter view

Our man of men, the Prince of Waterloo;

O'er the firm brow the hat as firmly press'd,

The firm shape rigid in the button'd vest;

Within — the iron which the fire has proved,

And the close Sparta of a mind unmoved!

Not his the wealth to some large natures lent,

Divinely lavish, even where misspent,

That liberal sunshine of exuberant soul,

Thought, sense, affection, warming up the whole;

The heat and affluence of a genial power,

Rank in the weed as vivid in the flower;

Hush'd at command his veriest passions halt,

Drill'd is each virtue, disciplined each fault;

Warm if his blood — he reasons while he glows,

Admits the pleasure — ne'er the folly knows;

If Vulcan for our Mars a snare had set,

He had won the Venus, but escaped the net;

His eye ne'er wrong, if circumscribed the sight,

Widen the prospect and it ne'er is right,

Seen through the telescope of habit still,

States seem a camp, and all the world — a drill!

Yet oh, how few his faults, how pure his mind,

Beside his fellow-conquerors of mankind;

How knightly seems the iron image, shown

By Marlborough's tomb, or lost Napoleon's throne!

Cold if his lips, no smile of fraud they wear,

Stern if his heart, still “Man” is graven there;

No guile — no crime his step to greatness made,

No freedom trampled, and no trust betray'd;

The eternal “I” was not his law — he rose

Without one art that honour might oppose,

And leaves a human, if a hero's, name,

To curb ambition while it lights to fame.

But who, scarce less by every gazer eyed,

Walks yonder, swinging with a stalwart stride?

With that vast bulk of chest and limb assign'd

So oft to men who subjugate their kind;

So sturdy Cromwell push'd broad-shoulder'd on;

So burly Luther breasted Babylon;

So brawny Cleon bawl'd his Agora down;

And large-limb'd Mahmoud clutch'd a Prophet's crown!

Ay, mark him well! the schemer's subtle eye,

The stage-mime's plastic lip your search defy —

He, like Lysander, never deems it sin

To eke the lion's with the fox's skin;

Vain every mesh this Proteus to enthrall,

He breaks no statute, and he creeps through all;—

First to the mass that valiant truth to tell,

“Rebellion's art is never to rebel,—

Elude all danger but defy all laws,” —

He stands himself the Safe Sublime he draws!

In him behold all contrasts which belong

To minds abased, but passions roused, by wrong;

The blood all fervour, and the brain all guile,

The patriot's bluntness, and the bondsman's wile.

One after one the lords of time advance,—

Here Stanley meets,— how Stanley scorns, the glance!

The brilliant chief, irregularly great,

Frank, haughty, rash,— the Rupert of Debate;

Nor gout, nor toil, his freshness can destroy,

And Time still leaves all Eton in the boy;—

First in the class, and keenest in the ring,

He saps like Gladstone, and he fights like Spring;

Ev'n at the feast, his pluck pervades the board,

And dauntless game-cocks symbolize their lord.

Lo where atilt at friend — if barr'd from foe —

He scours the ground, and volunteers the blow,

And, tired with conquest over Dan and Snob,

Plants a sly bruiser on the nose of Bob;

Decorous Bob, too friendly to reprove,

Suggests fresh fighting in the next remove,

And prompts his chum, in hopes the vein to cool,

To the prim benches of the Upper School:

Yet who not listens, with delighted smile,

To the pure Saxon of that silver style;

In the clear style a heart as clear is seen,

Prompt to the rash — revolting from the mean.

Next cool, and all unconscious of reproach,

Comes the calm “Johnny who upset the coach. "

How form'd to lead, if not too proud to please,—

His fame would fire you, but his manners freeze.

Like or dislike, he does not care a jot;

He wants your vote, but your affection not;

Yet human hearts need sun, as well as oats,

So cold a climate plays the deuce with votes.—

And while his doctrines ripen day by day,

His frost-nipp'd party pines itself away;—

From the starved wretch its own loved child we steal —

And “Free Trade” chirrups on the lap of Peel! —

But see our statesman when the steam is on,

And languid Johnny glows to glorious John!

When Hampden's thought, by Falkland's muses dress'd,

Lights the pale cheek, and swells the generous breast;

When the pent heat expands the quickening soul,—

And foremost in the race the wheels of genius roll!