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Is it some yet imperial hope,
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
He who of old would rend the oak,
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke—
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
The Roman, when his burning heart
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung
Too late thou leav'st the high command
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart,
To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God's fair world hath been
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
If thou hadst died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,
To shame the world again—
But who would soar the solar height,
Weighed in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay:
Thy scales, Mortality, are just
To all that pass away:
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay:
Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?
Must she too bend, must she too share
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem; 'Tis worth thy vanished diadem!
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage-
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit poured so widely forth-
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
His vulture and his rock! Foredoomed by God--by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch-mock;
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEeting of thE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND, 1814.
O dread was the time, and more dreadful the omen,
O then in her triumph remember his merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.
Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,
Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
Nor forget this gray head, who, all dark in affliction,
By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim!
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure, 35
Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Græme,
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story, And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.
Sir Walter Scott.
TO THE MEMORY OF PIETRO D'ALESSANDRO,
SECRETARY TO THE PROVINCIAL GOVERNMENT OF SICILY IN 1848, WHO DIED AN EXILE AT MALTA IN JANUARY 1855.
Beside the covered grave
Linger the exiles, though their task is done.
Yes, brethren; from your band one more is gone,
Scanty the rites, and train ;
How many' of all the storied marbles, set
In all thy churches, City of La Valette,
Hide nobler heart and brain?
Ah! had his soul been cold,
Tempered to make a sycophant or spy,
To love hard truth less than an easy lie,