« EelmineJätka »
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre:
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command;
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes
Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
And many a holy text around she strews,
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
On some fond breast the parting soul relies ;
For thee who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate;
Haply some hoary-headed swain shall say,
There, at the foot of yonder nodding beach, That wreathes its old fantastic roots on high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Him have we seen the greenwood side along,
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
"One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree : Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:
"The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere —
He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear;
He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode (Where they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God.
CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me,
And sleep in dull cold marble, when no mention
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee:
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all th' ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's: then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king:
And, prithee, lead me in ;—
There, take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!