It may seem paradoxical to say that the incapacity which Pitt showed in all that related to the conduct of the war is, in some sense, the most decisive proof that he was a man of very extraordinary abilities. Yet this is the simple truth. For assuredly one-tenth part of his errors and disasters would have been fatal to the power and influence of any minister who had not possessed, in the highest degree, the talents of a parliamentary leader. While his schemes were confounded, while his predictions were falsified, while the coalitions which he had laboured to form were falling to pieces, while the expeditions which he had sent forth at enormous cost were ending in rout and disgrace, while the enemy against whom he was feebly contending was subjugating Flanders and Brabant, the Electorate of Mentz, and the Electorate of Treves, Holland, Piedmont, Liguria, Lombardy, his authority over the House of Commons was constantly becoming more and more absolute. There was his empire. There were his victories, his Lodi and his Arcola, his Rivoli and his Marengo. If some great misfortune, a pitched battle lost by the allies, the annexation of a new department to the French Republic, a sanguinary insurrection in Ireland, a mutiny in the fleet, a panic in the city, a run on the bank, had spread dismay through the ranks of his majority, that dismay lasted only till he rose from the Treasury bench, drew up his haughty head, stretched his arm with commanding gesture, and poured forth, in deep and sonorous tones, the lofty language of inextinguishable hope and inflexible resolution. Thus, through a long and calamitous period, every disaster that happened without the walls of Parliament was regularly followed by a triumph within them. At length he had no longer an opposition to encounter. Of the great party which had contended against him during the first eight years of his administration more than one half now marched under his standard, with his old competitor the Duke of Portland at their head; and the rest had, after many vain struggles, quitted the field in despair. Fox had retired to the shades of St Anne's Hill, and had there found, in the society of friends whom no vicissitude could estrange from him, of a woman whom he tenderly loved, and of the illustrious dead of Athens, of Rome, and of Florence, ample compensation for all the misfortunes of his public life. Session followed session with scarcely a single division. In the eventful year 1799, the largest minority that could be mustered against the government was twenty-five.

In Pitt's domestic policy there was at this time assuredly no want of vigour. While he offered to French Jacobinism a resistance so feeble that it only encouraged the evil which he wished to suppress, he put down English Jacobinism with a strong hand. The Habeas Corpus Act was repeatedly suspended. Public meetings were placed under severe restraints. The government obtained from parliament power to send out of the country aliens who were suspected of evil designs; and that power was not suffered to be idle. Writers who propounded doctrines adverse to monarchy and aristocracy were proscribed and punished without mercy. It was hardly safe for a republican to avow his political creed over his beefsteak and his bottle of port at a chop-house. The old laws of Scotland against sedition, laws which were considered by Englishmen as barbarous, and which a succession of governments had suffered to rust, were now furbished up and sharpened anew. Men of cultivated minds and polished manners were, for offences which at Westminster would have been treated as mere misdemeanours, sent to herd with felons at Botany Bay. Some reformers, whose opinions were extravagant, and whose language was intemperate, but who had never dreamed of subverting the government by physical force, were indicted for high treason, and were saved from the gallows only by the righteous verdicts of juries. This severity was at the time loudly applauded by alarmists whom fear had made cruel, but will be seen in a very different light by posterity. The truth is, that the Englishmen who wished for a revolution were, even in number, not formidable, and in everything but number, a faction utterly contemptible, without arms, or funds, or plans, or organisation, or leader. There can be no doubt that Pitt, strong as he was in the support of the great body of the nation, might easily have repressed the turbulence of the discontented minority by firmly yet temperately enforcing the ordinary law. Whatever vigour he showed during this unfortunate part of his life was vigour out of place and season. He was all feebleness and langour in his conflict with the foreign enemy who was really to be dreaded, and reserved all his energy and resolution for the domestic enemy who might safely have been despised.

One part only of Pitt's conduct during the last eight years of the eighteenth century deserves high praise. He was the first English minister who formed great designs for the benefit of Ireland. The manner in which the Roman Catholic population of that unfortunate country had been kept down during many generations seemed to him unjust and cruel; and it was scarcely possible for a man of his abilities not to perceive that, in a contest against the Jacobins, the Roman Catholics were his natural allies. Had he been able to do all that he wished, it is probable that a wise and liberal policy would have averted the rebellion of 1798. But the difficulties which he encountered were great, perhaps insurmountable; and the Roman Catholics were, rather by his misfortune than by his fault, thrown into the hands of the Jacobins. There was a third great rising of the Irishry against the Englishry, a rising not less formidable than the risings of 1641 and 1689. The Englishry remained victorious, and it was necessary for Pitt, as it had been necessary for Oliver Cromwell and William of Orange before him, to consider how the victory should be used. It is only just to his memory to say that he formed a scheme of policy, so grand and so simple, so righteous and so humane, that it would alone entitle him to a high place among statesmen. He determined to make Ireland one kingdom with England, and, at the same time, to relieve the Roman Catholic laity from civil disabilities, and to grant a public maintenance to the Roman Catholic clergy. Had he been able to carry these noble designs into effect, the Union would have been an Union indeed. It would have been inseparably associated in the minds of the great majority of Irishmen with civil and religious freedom; and the old Parliament in College Green would have been regretted only by a small knot of discarded jobbers and oppressors, and would have been remembered by the body of the nation with the loathing and contempt due to the most tyrannical and the most corrupt assembly that had ever sate in Europe. But Pitt could execute only one half of what he had projected. He succeeded in obtaining the consent of the Parliaments of both kingdoms to the Union; but that reconciliation of races and sects, without which the Union could exist only in name, was not accomplished. He was well aware that he was likely to find difficulties in the closet. But he flattered himself, that by cautious and dexterous management, those difficulties might be overcome. Unhappily, there were traitors and sycophants in high place who did not suffer him to take his own time, and his own way, but prematurely disclosed his scheme to the King, and disclosed it in the manner most likely to irritate and alarm a weak and diseased mind. His Majesty absurdly imagined that his Coronation oath bound him to refuse his assent to any bill for relieving Roman Catholics from civil disabilities. To argue with him was impossible. Dundas tried to explain the matter, but was told to keep his Scotch metaphysics to himself. Pitt, and Pitt's ablest colleagues, resigned their offices. It was necessary that the King should make a new arrangement. But by this time his anger and distress had brought back the malady which had, many years before, incapacitated him for the discharge of his functions. He actually assembled his family, read the Coronation oath to them, and told them that, if he broke it, the Crown would immediately pass to the House of Savoy. It was not until after an interregnum of several weeks that he regained the full use of his small faculties, and that a ministry after his own heart was at length formed.

The materials out of which he had to construct a government were neither solid nor splendid. To that party, weak in numbers, but strong in every kind of talent, which was hostile to the domestic and foreign policy of his late advisers, he could not have recourse. For that party, while it differed from his late advisers on every point on which they had been honoured with his approbation, cordially agreed with them as to the single matter which had brought on them his displeasure. All that was left to him was to call up the rear ranks of the old ministry to form the front rank of a new ministry. In an age pre-eminently fruitful of parliamentary talents, a cabinet was formed containing hardly a single man who, in parliamentary talents, could be considered as even of the second rate. The most important offices in the state were bestowed on decorous and laborious mediocrity. Henry Addington was at the head of the Treasury. He had been an early, indeed a hereditary, friend of Pitt, and had by Pitt's influence been placed, while still a young man, in the chair of the House of Commons. He was universally admitted to have been the best speaker that had sate in that chair since the retirement of Onslow. But nature had not bestowed on him very vigorous faculties; and the highly respectable situation which he had long occupied with honour had rather unfitted than fitted him for the discharge of his new duties. His business had been to bear himself evenly between contending factions. He had taken no part in the war of words; and he had always been addressed with marked deference by the great orators who thundered against each other from his right and from his left. It was not strange that, when, for the first time, he had to encounter keen and vigorous antagonists, who dealt hard blows without the smallest ceremony, he should have been awkward and unready, or that the air of dignity and authority which he had acquired in his former post, and of which he had not divested himself, should have made his helplessness laughable and pitiable. Nevertheless, during many months, his power seemed to stand firm. He was a favourite with the King, whom he resembled in narrowness of mind, and to whom he was more obsequious than Pitt had ever been. The nation was put into high good humour by a peace with France. The enthusiasm with which the upper and middle classes had rushed into the war had spent itself. Jacobinism was no longer formidable. Everywhere there was a strong reaction against what was called the atheistical and anarchical philosophy of the eighteenth century. Bonaparte, now First Consul, was busied in constructing out of the ruins of old institutions a new ecclesiastical establishment and a new order of knighthood. That nothing less than the dominion of the whole civilised world would satisfy his selfish ambition was not yet suspected; nor did even wise men see any reason to doubt that he might be as safe a neighbour as any prince of the House of Bourbon had been. The treaty of Amiens was therefore hailed by the great body of the English people with extravagant joy. The popularity of the minister was for the moment immense. His want of parliamentary ability was, as yet, of little consequence: for he had scarcely any adversary to encounter. The old opposition, delighted by the peace, regarded him with favour. A new opposition had indeed been formed by some of the late ministers, and was led by Grenville in the House of Lords, and by Windham in the House of Commons. But the new opposition could scarcely muster ten votes, and was regarded with no favour by the country. On Pitt the ministers relied as on their firmest support. He had not, like some of his colleagues, retired in anger. He had expressed the greatest respect for the conscientious scruple which had taken possession of the royal mind; and he had promised his successors all the help in his power. In private his advice was at their service. In Parliament he took his seat on the bench behind them; and, in more than one debate, defended them with powers far superior to their own. The King perfectly understood the value of such assistance. On one occasion, at the palace, he took the old minister and the new minister aside. "If we three," he said, "keep together, all will go well."

But it was hardly possible, human nature being what it is, and, more especially, Pitt and Addington being what they were, that this union should be durable. Pitt, conscious of superior powers, imagined that the place which he had quitted was now occupied by a mere puppet which he had set up, which he was to govern while he suffered it to remain, and which he was to fling aside as soon as he wished to resume his old position. Nor was it long before he began to pine for the power which he had relinquished. He had been so early raised to supreme authority in the state, and had enjoyed that authority so long, that it had become necessary to him. In retirement his days passed heavily. He could not, like Fox, forget the pleasures and cares of ambition in the company of Euripides or Herodotus. Pride restrained him from intimating, even to his dearest friends, that he wished to be again minister. But he thought it strange, almost ungrateful, that his wish had not been divined, that it had not been anticipated, by one whom he regarded as his deputy.

Addington, on the other hand, was by no means inclined to descend from his high position. He was, indeed, under a delusion much resembling that of Abon Hassan in the Arabian tale. His brain was turned by his short and unreal Caliphate. He took his elevation quite seriously, attributed it to his own merit, and considered himself as one of the great triumvirate of English statesmen, as worthy to make a third with Pitt and Fox.

Such being the feelings of the late minister and of the present minister, a rupture was inevitable; and there was no want of persons bent on making that rupture speedy and violent. Some of these persons wounded Addington's pride by representing him as a lacquey, sent to keep a place on the Treasury bench till his master should find it convenient to come. Others took every opportunity of praising him at Pitt's expense. Pitt had waged a long, a bloody, a costly, an unsuccessful war. Addington had made peace. Pitt had suspended the constitutional liberties of Englishmen. Under Addington those liberties were again enjoyed. Pitt had wasted the public resources. Addington was carefully nursing them. It was sometimes but too evident that these compliments were not unpleasing to Addington. Pitt became cold and reserved. During many months he remained at a distance from London. Meanwhile his most intimate friends, in spite of his declarations that he made no complaint, and that he had no wish for office, exerted themselves to effect a change of ministry. His favourite disciple, George Canning, young, ardent, ambitious, with great powers and great virtues, but with a temper too restless and a wit too satirical for his own happiness, was indefatigable. He spoke; he wrote; he intrigued; he tried to induce a large number of the supporters of the government to sign a round robin desiring a change; he made game of Addington and of Addington's relations in a succession of lively pasquinades. The minister's partisans retorted with equal acrimony, if not with equal vivacity. Pitt could keep out of the affray only by keeping out of politics altogether; and this it soon became impossible for him to do. Had Napoleon, content with the first place among the Sovereigns of the Continent, and with a military reputation surpassing that of Marlborough or of Turenne, devoted himself to the noble task of making France happy by mild administration and wise legislation, our country might have long continued to tolerate a government of fair intentions and feeble abilities. Unhappily, the treaty of Amiens had scarcely been signed, when the restless ambition and the insupportable insolence of the First Consul convinced the great body of the English people that the peace, so eagerly welcomed, was only a precarious armistice. As it became clearer and clearer that a war for the dignity, the independence, the very existence of the nation was at hand, men looked with increasing uneasiness on the weak and languid cabinet which would have to contend against an enemy who united more than the power of Louis the Great to more than the genius of Frederick the Great. It is true that Addington might easily have been a better war minister than Pitt, and could not possibly have been a worse. But Pitt had cast a spell on the public mind. The eloquence, the judgment, the calm and disdainful firmness, which he had, during many years, displayed in Parliament, deluded the world into the belief that he must be eminently qualified to superintend every department of politics, and they imagined, even after the miserable failures of Dunkirk, of Quiberon, and of the Helder, that he was the only statesman who could cope with Bonaparte. This feeling was nowhere stronger than among Addington's own colleagues. The pressure put on him was so strong that he could not help yielding to it; yet, even in yielding, he showed how far he was from knowing his own place. His first proposition was, that some insignificant nobleman should be First Lord of the Treasury and nominal head of the administration, and that the real power should be divided between Pitt and himself, who were to be secretaries of state. Pitt, as might have been expected, refused even to discuss such a scheme, and talked of it with bitter mirth. "Which secretaryship was offered to you?" his friend Wilberforce asked. "Really," said Pitt, "I had not the curiosity to inquire." Addington was frightened into bidding higher. He offered to resign the Treasury to Pitt, on condition that there should be no extensive change in the government. But Pitt would listen to no such terms. Then came a dispute such as often arises after negotiations orally conducted, even when the negotiators are men of strict honour. Pitt gave one account of what had passed; Addington gave another: and though the discrepancies were not such as necessarily implied any intentional violation of truth on either side, both were greatly exasperated.

Meanwhile the quarrel with the First Consul had come to a crisis. On the 16th of May, 1803, the King sent a message calling on the House of Commons to support him in withstanding the ambitious and encroaching policy of France; and, on the 22d, the House took the message into consideration.

Pitt had now been living many months in retirement. There had been a general election since he had spoken in Parliament; and there were two hundred members who had never heard him. It was known that on this occasion he would be in his place; and curiosity was wound up to the highest point. Unfortunately the short-hand writers were, in consequence of some mistake, shut out on that day from the gallery, so that the newspapers contained only a very meagre report of the proceedings. But several accounts of what passed are extant; and of those accounts the most interesting is contained in an unpublished letter, written by a very young member, John William Ward, afterwards Earl of Dudley. When Pitt rose, he was received with loud cheering. At every pause in his speech there was a burst of applause. The peroration is said to have been one of the most animated and magnificent ever heard in Parliament. "Pitt's speech," Fox wrote a few days later, "was admired very much, and very justly. I think it was the best he ever made in that style." The debate was adjourned; and on the second night Fox replied in an oration which, as the most zealous Pittites were forced to acknowledge, left the palm of eloquence doubtful. Addington made a pitiable appearance between the two great rivals; and it was observed that Pitt, while exhorting the Commons to stand resolutely by the executive government against France, said not a word indicating esteem or friendship for the Prime Minister.

War was speedily declared. The first consul threatened to invade England at the head of the conquerors of Belgium and Italy, and formed a great camp near the Straits of Dover. On the other side of those Straits the whole population of our island was ready to rise up as one man in defence of the soil. At this conjuncture, as at some other great conjunctures in our history, the conjuncture of 1660, for example, and the conjuncture of 1688, there was a general disposition among honest and patriotic men to forget old quarrels, and to regard as a friend every person who was ready, in the existing emergency, to do his part towards the saving of the state. A coalition of all the first men in the country would, at that moment, have been as popular as the coalition of 1783 had been unpopular. Alone in the kingdom the King looked with perfect complacency on a cabinet in which no man superior to himself in genius was to be found, and was so far from being willing to admit all his ablest subjects to office that he was bent on excluding them all.

A few months passed before the different parties which agreed in regarding the government with dislike and contempt came to an understanding with each other. But in the spring of 1804 it became evident that the weakest of ministries would have to defend itself against the strongest of oppositions, an opposition made up of three oppositions, each of which would, separately, have been formidable from ability, and which, when united, were also formidable from number. The party which had opposed the peace, headed by Grenville and Windham, and the party which had opposed the renewal of the war, headed by Fox, concurred in thinking that the men now in power were incapable of either making a good peace or waging a vigorous war. Pitt had, in 1802, spoken for peace against the party of Grenville, and had, in 1803, spoken for war against the party of Fox. But of the capacity of the cabinet, and especially of its chief, for the conduct of great affairs, he thought as meanly as either Fox or Grenville. Questions were easily found on which all the enemies of the government could act cordially together. The unfortunate First Lord of the Treasury, who had, during the earlier months of his administration, been supported by Pitt on one side, and by Fox on the other, now had to answer Pitt, and to be answered by Fox. Two sharp debates, followed by close divisions, made him weary of his post. It was known, too, that the Upper House was even more hostile to him than the Lower, that the Scotch representative peers wavered, that there were signs of mutiny among the bishops. In the cabinet itself there was discord, and, worse than discord, treachery. It was necessary to give way: the ministry was dissolved; and the task of forming a government was entrusted to Pitt.

Pitt was of opinion that there was now an opportunity, such as had never before offered itself, and such as might never offer itself again, of uniting in the public service, on honourable terms, all the eminent talents of the kingdom. The passions to which the French revolution had given birth were extinct. The madness of the innovator and the madness of the alarmist had alike had their day. Jacobinism and anti-Jacobinism had gone out of fashion together. The most liberal statesman did not think that season propitious for schemes of parliamentary reform; and the most conservative statesman could not pretend that there was any occasion for gagging bills and suspensions of the Habeas Corpus Act. The great struggle for independence and national honour occupied all minds; and those who were agreed as to the duty of maintaining that struggle with vigour might well postpone to a more convenient time all disputes about matters comparatively unimportant. Strongly impressed by these considerations, Pitt wished to form a ministry including all the first men in the country. The Treasury he reserved for himself; and to Fox he proposed to assign a share of power little inferior to his own.

The plan was excellent; but the King would not hear of it. Dull, obstinate, unforgiving, and, at that time half mad, he positively refused to admit Fox into his service. Anybody else, even men who had gone as far as Fox, or further than Fox, in what his Majesty considered as Jacobinism, Sheridan, Grey, Erskine, should be graciously received; but Fox never. During several hours Pitt laboured in vain to reason down this senseless antipathy. That he was perfectly sincere there can be no doubt: but it was not enough to be sincere; he should have been resolute. Had he declared himself determined not to take office without Fox, the royal obstinacy would have given way, as it gave way, a few months later, when opposed to the immutable resolution of Lord Grenville. In an evil hour Pitt yielded. He flattered himself with the hope that, though he consented to forego the aid of his illustrious rival, there would still remain ample materials for the formation of an efficient ministry. That hope was cruelly disappointed. Fox entreated his friends to leave personal considerations out of the question, and declared that he would support, with the utmost cordiality, an efficient and patriotic ministry from which he should be himself excluded. Not only his friends, however, but Grenville, and Grenville's adherents, answered, with one voice, that the question was not personal, that a great constitutional principle was at stake, and that they would not take office while a man eminently qualified to render service to the commonwealth was placed under a ban merely because he was disliked at Court. All that was left to Pitt was to construct a government out of the wreck of Addington's feeble administration. The small circle of his personal retainers furnished him with a very few useful assistants, particularly Dundas, who had been created Viscount Melville, Lord Harrowby, and Canning.

Such was the inauspicious manner in which Pitt entered on his second administration. The whole history of that administration was of a piece with the commencement. Almost every month brought some new disaster or disgrace. To the war with France was soon added a war with Spain. The opponents of the minister were numerous, able, and active. His most useful coadjutors he soon lost. Sickness deprived him of the help of Lord Harrowby. It was discovered that Lord Melville had been guilty of highly culpable laxity in transactions relating to public money. He was censured by the House of Commons, driven from office, ejected from the Privy Council, and impeached of high crimes and misdemeanours. The blow fell heavy on Pitt. It gave him, he said in Parliament, a deep pang; and, as he uttered the word pang, his lip quivered, his voice shook, he paused, and his hearers thought that he was about to burst into tears. Such tears shed by Eldon would have moved nothing but laughter. Shed by the warm-hearted and open-hearted Fox, they would have moved sympathy, but would have caused no surprise. But a tear from Pitt would have been something portentous. He suppressed his emotion, however, and proceeded with his usual majestic self-possession.

His difficulties compelled him to resort to various expedients. At one time Addington was persuaded to accept office with a peerage; but he brought no additional strength to the government. Though he went through the form of reconciliation, it was impossible for him to forget the past. While he remained in place he was jealous and punctilious; and he soon retired again. At another time Pitt renewed his efforts to overcome his master's aversion to Fox; and it was rumoured that the King's obstinacy was gradually giving way. But, meanwhile, it was impossible for the minister to conceal from the public eye the decay of his health, and the constant anxiety which gnawed at his heart. His sleep was broken. His food ceased to nourish him. All who passed him in the Park, all who had interviews with him in Downing Street, saw misery written in his face. The peculiar look which he wore during the last months of his life was often pathetically described by Wilberforce, who used to call it the Austerlitz look.

Still the vigour of Pitt's intellectual faculties, and the intrepid haughtiness of his spirit, remained unaltered. He had staked everything on a great venture. He had succeeded in forming another mighty coalition against the French ascendency. The united forces of Austria, Russia, and England might, he hoped, oppose an insurmountable barrier to the ambition of the common enemy. But the genius and energy of Napoleon prevailed. While the English troops were preparing to embark for Germany, while the Russian troops were slowly coming up from Poland, he, with rapidity unprecedented in modern war, moved a hundred thousand men from the shores of the Ocean to the Black Forest, and compelled a great Austrian army to surrender at Ulm. To the first faint rumours of this calamity Pitt would give no credit. He was irritated by the alarms of those around him. "Do not believe a word of it," he said: "It is all a fiction." The next day he received a Dutch newspaper containing the capitulation. He knew no Dutch. It was Sunday; and the public offices were shut. He carried the paper to Lord Malmesbury, who had been minister in Holland; and Lord Malmesbury translated it. Pitt tried to bear up; but the shock was too great; and he went away with death in his face.

The news of the battle of Trafalgar arrived four days later, and seemed for a moment to revive him. Forty-eight hours after that most glorious and most mournful of victories had been announced to the country came the Lord Mayor's day; and Pitt dined at Guildhall. His popularity had declined. But on this occasion the multitude, greatly excited by the recent tidings, welcomed him enthusiastically, took off his horses in Cheapside, and drew his carriage up King Street. When his health was drunk, he returned thanks in two or three of those stately sentences of which he had a boundless command. Several of those who heard him laid up his words in their hearts; for they were the last words that he ever uttered in public: "Let us hope that England, having saved herself by her energy, may save Europe by her example."

This was but a momentary rally. Austerlitz soon completed what Ulm had begun. Early in December Pitt had retired to Bath, in the hope that he might there gather strength for the approaching session. While he was languishing there on his sofa arrived the news that a decisive battle had been fought and lost in Moravia, that the coalition was dissolved, that the Continent was at the feet of France. He sank down under the blow. Ten days later he was so emaciated that his most intimate friends hardly knew him. He came up from Bath by slow journeys, and, on the 11th of January 1806, reached his villa at Putney. Parliament was to meet on the 21st. On the 20th was to be the parliamentary dinner at the house of the First Lord of the Treasury in Downing Street; and the cards were already issued. But the days of the great minister were numbered. The only chance for his life, and that a very slight chance, was that he should resign his office, and pass some months in profound repose. His colleagues paid him very short visits, and carefully avoided political conversation. But his spirit, long accustomed to dominion, could not, even in that extremity, relinquish hopes which everybody but himself perceived to be vain. On the day on which he was carried into his bedroom at Putney, the Marquess Wellesley, whom he had long loved, whom he had sent to govern India, and whose administration had been eminently able, energetic, and successful, arrived in London after an absence of eight years. The friends saw each other once more. There was an affectionate meeting, and a last parting. That it was a last parting Pitt did not seem to be aware. He fancied himself to be recovering, talked on various subjects cheerfully, and with an unclouded mind, and pronounced a warm and discerning eulogium on the Marquess's brother Arthur. "I never," he said, "met with any military man with whom it was so satisfactory to converse." The excitement and exertion of this interview were too much for the sick man. He fainted away; and Lord Wellesley left the house, convinced that the close was fast approaching.

And now members of Parliament were fast coming up to London. The chiefs of the opposition met for the purpose of considering the course to be taken on the first day of the session. It was easy to guess what would be the language of the King's speech, and of the address which would be moved in answer to that speech. An amendment condemning the policy of the government had been prepared, and was to have been proposed in the House of Commons by Lord Henry Petty, a young nobleman who had already won for himself that place in the esteem of his country which, after the lapse of more than half a century, he still retains. He was unwilling, however, to come forward as the accuser of one who was incapable of defending himself. Lord Grenville, who had been informed of Pitt's state by Lord Wellesley, and had been deeply affected by it, earnestly recommended forbearance; and Fox, with characteristic generosity and good nature, gave his voice against attacking his now helpless rival. "Sunt lacrymae rerum," he said, "et mentem mortalia tangunt." On the first day, therefore, there was no debate. It was rumoured that evening that Pitt was better. But on the following morning his physicians pronounced that there were no hopes. The commanding faculties of which he had been too proud were beginning to fail. His old tutor and friend, the Bishop of Lincoln, informed him of his danger, and gave such religious advice and consolation as a confused and obscured mind could receive. Stories were told of devout sentiments fervently uttered by the dying man. But these stories found no credit with anybody who knew him. Wilberforce pronounced it impossible that they could be true. "Pitt," he added, "was a man who always said less than he thought on such topics." It was asserted in many after-dinner speeches, Grub Street elegies, and academic prize poems and prize declamations, that the great minister died exclaiming, "Oh my country!" This is a fable; but it is true that the last words which he uttered, while he knew what he said, were broken exclamations about the alarming state of public affairs. He ceased to breathe on the morning of the 23rd of January, 1806, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day on which he first took his seat in Parliament. He was in his forty-seventh year, and had been, during near nineteen years, First Lord of the Treasury, and undisputed chief of the administration. Since parliamentary government was established in England, no English statesman has held supreme power so long. Walpole, it is true, was First Lord of the Treasury during more than twenty years: but it was not till Walpole had been some time First Lord of the Treasury that he could be properly called Prime Minister.

It was moved in the House of Commons that Pitt should be honoured with a public funeral and a monument. The motion was opposed by Fox in a speech which deserves to be studied as a model of good taste and good feeling. The task was the most invidious that ever an orator undertook: but it was performed with a humanity and delicacy which were warmly acknowledged by the mourning friends of him who was gone. The motion was carried by 288 votes to 89.

The 22d of February was fixed for the funeral. The corpse having lain in state during two days in the Painted Chamber, was borne with great pomp to the northern transept of the Abbey. A splendid train of princes, nobles, bishops, and privy councillors followed. The grave of Pitt had been made near to the spot where his great father lay, near also to the spot where his great rival was soon to lie. The sadness of the assistants was beyond that of ordinary mourners. For he whom they were committing to the dust had died of sorrows and anxieties of which none of the survivors could be altogether without a share. Wilberforce, who carried the banner before the hearse, described the awful ceremony with deep feeling. As the coffin descended into the earth, he said, the eagle face of Chatham from above seemed to look down with consternation into the dark house which was receiving all that remained of so much power and glory.

All parties in the House of Commons readily concurred in voting forty thousand pounds to satisfy the demands of Pitt's creditors. Some of his admirers seemed to consider the magnitude of his embarrassments as a circumstance highly honourable to him; but men of sense will probably be of a different opinion. It is far better, no doubt, that a great minister should carry his contempt of money to excess than that he should contaminate his hands with unlawful gain. But it is neither right nor becoming in a man to whom the public has given an income more than sufficient for his comfort and dignity to bequeath to that public a great debt, the effect of mere negligence and profusion. As first Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer, Pitt never had less than six thousand a year, besides an excellent house. In 1792 he was forced by his royal master's friendly importunity to accept for life the office of Warden of the Cinque Ports, with near four thousand a year more. He had neither wife nor child; he had no needy relations: he had no expensive tastes: he had no long election bills. Had he given but a quarter of an hour a week to the regulation of his household, he would have kept his expenditure within bounds. Or, if he could not spare even a quarter of an hour a week for that purpose, he had numerous friends, excellent men of business, who would have been proud to act as his stewards. One of those friends, the chief of a great commercial house in the city, made an attempt to put the establishment in Downing Street to rights; but in vain. He found that the waste of the servants' hall was almost fabulous. The quantity of butcher's meat charged in the bills was nine hundredweight a week. The consumption of poultry, of fish, and of tea was in proportion. The character of Pitt would have stood higher if with the disinterestedness of Pericles and of De Witt, he had united their dignified frugality.

The memory of Pitt has been assailed, times innumerable, often justly, often unjustly; but it has suffered much less from his assailants than from his eulogists. For, during many years, his name was the rallying cry of a class of men with whom, at one of those terrible conjunctures which confound all ordinary distinctions, he was accidentally and temporarily connected, but to whom, on almost all great questions of principle, he was diametrically opposed. The haters of parliamentary reform called themselves Pittites, not choosing to remember that Pitt made three motions for parliamentary reform, and that, though he thought that such a reform could not safely be made while the passions excited by the French revolution were raging, he never uttered a word indicating that he should not be prepared at a more convenient season to bring the question forward a fourth time. The toast of Protestant ascendency was drunk on Pitt's birthday by a set of Pittites who could not but be aware that Pitt had resigned his office because he could not carry Catholic emancipation. The defenders of the Test Act called themselves Pittites, though they could not be ignorant that Pitt had laid before George the Third unanswerable reasons for abolishing the Test Act. The enemies of free trade called themselves Pittites, though Pitt was far more deeply imbued with the doctrines of Adam Smith than either Fox or Grey. The very negro-drivers invoked the name of Pitt, whose eloquence was never more conspicuously displayed than when he spoke of the wrongs of the negro. This mythical Pitt, who resembles the genuine Pitt as little as Charlemagne of Ariosto resembles the Charlemagne of Eginhard, has had his day. History will vindicate the real man from calumny disguised under the semblance of adulation, and will exhibit him as what he was, a minister of great talents, honest intentions, and liberal opinions, pre-eminently qualified, intellectually and morally, for the part of a parliamentary leader, and capable of administering with prudence and moderation the government of a prosperous and tranquil country, but unequal to surprising and terrible emergencies, and liable, in such emergencies, to err grievously, both on the side of weakness and on the side of violence.

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, INSCRIPTIONS, ETC.



EPITAPH ON HENRY MARTYN. (1812.)

Here Martyn lies. In Manhood's early bloom The Christian Hero finds a Pagan tomb. Religion, sorrowing o'er her favourite son, Points to the glorious trophies that he won. Eternal trophies! not with carnage red, Not stained with tears by hapless captives shed, But trophies of the Cross! for that dear name, Through every form of danger, death, and shame, Onward he journeyed to a happier shore, Where danger, death, and shame assault no more.

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LINES TO THE MEMORY OF PITT. (1813.)

Oh Britain! dear Isle, when the annals of story Shall tell of the deeds that thy children have done, When the strains of each poet shall sing of their glory, And the triumphs their skill and their valour have won.

When the olive and palm in thy chaplet are blended, When thy arts, and thy fame, and thy commerce increase, When thy arms through the uttermost coasts are extended, And thy war is triumphant, and happy thy peace;

When the ocean, whose waves like a rampart flow round thee, Conveying thy mandates to every shore, And the empire of nature no longer can bound thee, And the world be the scene of thy conquests no more:

Remember the man who in sorrow and danger, When thy glory was set, and thy spirit was low, When thy hopes were o'erturned by the arms of the stranger, And thy banners displayed in the halls of the foe,

Stood forth in the tempest of doubt and disaster, Unaided, and single, the danger to brave. Asserted thy claims, and the rights of his master, Preserved thee to conquer, and saved thee to save.

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A RADICAL WAR SONG. (1820.)

Awake, arise, the hour is come, For rows and revolutions; There's no receipt like pike and drum For crazy constitutions. Close, close the shop! Break, break the loom, Desert your hearths and furrows, And throng in arms to seal the doom Of England's rotten boroughs.

We'll stretch that tort'ring Castlereagh On his own Dublin rack, sir; We'll drown the King in Eau de vie, The Laureate in his sack, sir, Old Eldon and his sordid hag In molten gold we'll smother, And stifle in his own green bag The Doctor and his brother.

In chains we'll hang in fair Guildhall The City's famed recorder, And next on proud St Stephen's fall, Though Wynne should squeak to order. In vain our tyrants then shall try To 'scape our martial law, sir; In vain the trembling Speaker cry That "Strangers must withdraw," sir.

Copley to hang offends no text; A rat is not a man, sir: With schedules, and with tax bills next We'll bury pious Van, sir. The slaves who loved the income Tax, We'll crush by scores, like mites, sir, And him, the wretch who freed the blacks, And more enslaved the whites, sir.

The peer shall dangle from his gate, The bishop from his steeple, Till all recanting, own, the State Means nothing but the People. We'll fix the church's revenues On Apostolic basis, One coat, one scrip, one pair of shoes Shall pay their strange grimaces.

We'll strap the bar's deluding train In their own darling halter, And with his big church bible brain The parson at the altar. Hail glorious hour, when fair Reform Shall bless our longing nation, And Hunt receive commands to form A new administration.

Carlisle shall sit enthroned, where sat Our Cranmer and our Secker; And Watson show his snow-white hat In England's rich Exchequer. The breast of Thistlewood shall wear Our Wellesley's star and sash, man: And many a mausoleum fair Shall rise to honest Cashman.

Then, then beneath the nine-tailed cat Shall they who used it writhe, sir; And curates lean, and rectors fat, Shall dig the ground they tithe, sir. Down with your Bayleys, and your Bests, Your Giffords, and your Gurneys: We'll clear the island of the pests, Which mortals name attorneys.

Down with your sheriffs, and your mayors, Your registrars, and proctors, We'll live without the lawyer's cares, And die without the doctor's. No discontented fair shall pout To see her spouse so stupid; We'll tread the torch of Hymen out, And live content with Cupid.

Then, when the high-born and the great Are humbled to our level, On all the wealth of Church and State, Like aldermen, we'll revel. We'll live when hushed the battle's din, In smoking and in cards, sir, In drinking unexcised gin, And wooing fair Poissardes, sir.

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THE BATTLE OF MONCONTOUR. (1824.)

Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour, When the children of darkness and evil had power, When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.

Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain, Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain; Oh, weep for the living, who linger to bear The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair.

One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers, To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers, To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed, Where we fondly had deemed that our own would be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home, To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome, To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain, To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades, To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids, To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees, And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.

Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave May rule in the halls of the free and the brave. Our hearths we abandon; our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.

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THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, (1824.)

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT.

Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine, And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout, Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! For Charles King of England and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks; For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last.

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground: Hark! hark!—What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys, Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; And he—he turns, he flies:—shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.

Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown, With the Belial of the Court and the Mammon of the Pope; There is woe in Oxford halls: there is wail in Durham's Stalls: The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

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SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD. (1825.)

Let pious Damon take his seat, With mincing step and languid smile, And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, Sabaean odours o'er the aisle; And spread his little jewelled hand, And smile round all the parish beauties, And pat his curls, and smooth his band, Meet prelude to his saintly duties.

Let the thronged audience press and stare, Let stifled maidens ply the fan, Admire his doctrines, and his hair, And whisper, "What a good young man!" While he explains what seems most clear, So clearly that it seems perplexed, I'll stay and read my sermon here; And skulls, and bones, shall be the text.

Art thou the jilted dupe of fame? Dost thou with jealous anger pine Whene'er she sounds some other name, With fonder emphasis than thine? To thee I preach; draw near; attend! Look on these bones, thou fool, and see Where all her scorns and favours end, What Byron is, and thou must be.

Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf, or wandering feather? Behold the black, damp narrow pits, Where they and thou must lie together.

Dost thou beneath the smile or frown Of some vain woman bend thy knee? Here take thy stand, and trample down Things that were once as fair as she. Here rave of her ten thousand graces, Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin.

Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, Whate'er thy projects or thy fears, Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains, That prompt thy baby smiles and tears; Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, In one short hour of placid thought, A stoicism, more deep, more stern, Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught.

The plots and feats of those that press To seize on titles, wealth, or power, Shall seem to thee a game of chess, Devised to pass a tedious hour. What matters it to him who fights For shows of unsubstantial good, Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights, Be things of flesh, or things of wood?

We check, and take; exult, and fret; Our plans extend, our passions rise, Till in our ardour we forget How worthless is the victor's prize. Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night: Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game?

Dost thou among these hillocks stray, O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan? Know that thy foot is on the clay Of hearts once wretched as thy own. How many a father's anxious schemes, How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, How many a mother's cherished dreams, The swelling turf before thee covers!

Here for the living, and the dead, The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same cold bed, The same dark night, the same long sleep; Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave O'er those with whom thou soon must be? Death his own sting shall cure—the grave Shall vanquish its own victory.

Here learn that all the griefs and joys, Which now torment, which now beguile, Are children's hurts, and children's toys, Scarce worthy of one bitter smile. Here learn that pulpit, throne, and press, Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail, That science is a blind man's guess, And History a nurse's tale.

Here learn that glory and disgrace, Wisdom and folly, pass away, That mirth hath its appointed space, That sorrow is but for a day; That all we love, and all we hate, That all we hope, and all we fear, Each mood of mind, each turn of fate, Must end in dust and silence here.

*****



TRANSLATION FROM A.V. ARNAULT. (1826.)

"Fables": Livre v. "Fable" 16.

Thou poor leaf, so sear and frail, Sport of every wanton gale, Whence, and whither, dost thou fly, Through this bleak autumnal sky? On a noble oak I grew, Green, and broad, and fair to view; But the Monarch of the shade By the tempest low was laid. From that time, I wander o'er Wood, and valley, hill, and moor, Wheresoe'er the wind is blowing, Nothing caring, nothing knowing: Thither go I, whither goes, Glory's laurel, Beauty's rose.

*****

—De ta tige detachee, Pauvre feuille dessechee Ou vas tu?—Je n'en sais rien. L'orage a frappe le chene Qui seul etait mon soutien. De son inconstante haleine, Le zephyr ou l'aquilon Depuis ce jour me promene De la foret a la plaine, De la montagne au vallon. Je vais ou le vent me mene, Sans me plaindre ou m'effrayer, Je vais ou va toute chose Ou va la feuille de rose Et la feuille de laurier.

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DIES IRAE. (1826.)

On that great, that awful day, This vain world shall pass away. Thus the sibyl sang of old, Thus hath holy David told. There shall be a deadly fear When the Avenger shall appear, And unveiled before his eye All the works of man shall lie. Hark! to the great trumpet's tones Pealing o'er the place of bones: Hark! it waketh from their bed All the nations of the dead,— In a countless throng to meet, At the eternal judgment seat. Nature sickens with dismay, Death may not retain its prey; And before the Maker stand All the creatures of his hand. The great book shall be unfurled, Whereby God shall judge the world; What was distant shall be near, What was hidden shall be clear. To what shelter shall I fly? To what guardian shall I cry? Oh, in that destroying hour, Source of goodness, Source of power, Show thou, of thine own free grace, Help unto a helpless race. Though I plead not at thy throne Aught that I for thee have done, Do not thou unmindful be, Of what thou hast borne for me: Of the wandering, of the scorn, Of the scourge, and of the thorn. JESUS, hast THOU borne the pain, And hath all been borne in vain? Shall thy vengeance smite the head For whose ransom thou hast bled? Thou, whose dying blessing gave Glory to a guilty slave: Thou, who from the crew unclean Didst release the Magdalene: Shall not mercy vast and free, Evermore be found in thee? Father, turn on me thine eyes, See my blushes, hear my cries; Faint though be the cries I make, Save me for thy mercy's sake, From the worm, and from the fire, From the torments of thine ire. Fold me with the sheep that stand Pure and safe at thy right hand. Hear thy guilty child implore thee, Rolling in the dust before thee. Oh the horrors of that day! When this frame of sinful clay, Starting from its burial place, Must behold thee face to face. Hear and pity, hear and aid, Spare the creatures thou hast made. Mercy, mercy, save, forgive, Oh, who shall look on thee and live?

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THE MARRIAGE OF TIRZAH AND AHIRAD. (1827.)

GENESIS VI. 3.

It is the dead of night: Yet more than noonday light Beams far and wide from many a gorgeous hall. Unnumbered harps are tinkling, Unnumbered lamps are twinkling, In the great city of the fourfold wall. By the brazen castle's moat, The sentry hums a livelier note. The ship-boy chaunts a shriller lay From the galleys in the bay. Shout, and laugh, and hurrying feet Sound from mart and square and street, From the breezy laurel shades, From the granite colonnades, From the golden statue's base, From the stately market-place, Where, upreared by captive hands, The great Tower of Triumph stands, All its pillars in a blaze With the many-coloured rays, Which lanthorns of ten thousand dyes Shed on ten thousand panoplies. But closest is the throng, And loudest is the song, In that sweet garden by the river side, The abyss of myrtle bowers, The wilderness of flowers, Where Cain hath built the palace of his pride. Such palace ne'er shall be again Among the dwindling race of men. From all its threescore gates the light Of gold and steel afar was thrown; Two hundred cubits rose in height The outer wall of polished stone. On the top was ample space For a gallant chariot race, Near either parapet a bed Of the richest mould was spread, Where amidst flowers of every scent and hue Rich orange trees, and palms, and giant cedars grew.

In the mansion's public court All is revel, song, and sport; For there, till morn shall tint the east, Menials and guards prolong the feast. The boards with painted vessels shine; The marble cisterns foam with wine. A hundred dancing girls are there With zoneless waists and streaming hair; And countless eyes with ardour gaze, And countless hands the measure beat, As mix and part in amorous maze Those floating arms and bounding feet. But none of all the race of Cain, Save those whom he hath deigned to grace With yellow robe and sapphire chain, May pass beyond that outer space. For now within the painted hall The Firstborn keeps high festival. Before the glittering valves all night Their post the chosen captains hold. Above the portal's stately height The legend flames in lamps of gold: "In life united and in death "May Tirzah and Ahirad be, "The bravest he of all the sons of Seth, "Of all the house of Cain the loveliest she."

Through all the climates of the earth This night is given to festal mirth. The long continued war is ended. The long divided lines are blended. Ahirad's bow shall now no more Make fat the wolves with kindred gore. The vultures shall expect in vain Their banquet from the sword of Cain. Without a guard the herds and flocks Along the frontier moors and rocks From eve to morn may roam: Nor shriek, nor shout, nor reddened sky, Shall warn the startled hind to fly From his beloved home. Nor to the pier shall burghers crowd With straining necks and faces pale, And think that in each flitting cloud They see a hostile sail. The peasant without fear shall guide Down smooth canal or river wide His painted bark of cane, Fraught, for some proud bazaar's arcades, With chestnuts from his native shades, And wine, and milk, and grain. Search round the peopled globe to-night, Explore each continent and isle, There is no door without a light, No face without a smile. The noblest chiefs of either race, From north and south, from west and east, Crowd to the painted hall to grace The pomp of that atoning feast. With widening eyes and labouring breath Stand the fair-haired sons of Seth, As bursts upon their dazzled sight The endless avenue of light, The bowers of tulip, rose, and palm, The thousand cressets fed with balm, The silken vests, the boards piled high With amber, gold, and ivory, The crystal founts whence sparkling flow The richest wines o'er beds of snow, The walls where blaze in living dyes The king's three hundred victories. The heralds point the fitting seat To every guest in order meet, And place the highest in degree Nearest th' imperial canopy. Beneath its broad and gorgeous fold, With naked swords and shields of gold, Stood the seven princes of the tribes of Nod. Upon an ermine carpet lay Two tiger cubs in furious play, Beneath the emerald throne where sat the signed of God.

Over that ample forehead white The thousandth year returneth. Still, on its commanding height, With a fierce and blood-red light, The fiery token burneth. Wheresoe'er that mystic star Blazeth in the van of war, Back recoil before its ray Shield and banner, bow and spear, Maddened horses break away From the trembling charioteer. The fear of that stern king doth lie On all that live beneath the sky: All shrink before the mark of his despair, The seal of that great curse which he alone can bear. Blazing in pearls and diamonds' sheen. Tirzah, the young Ahirad's bride, Of humankind the destined queen, Sits by her great forefather's side. The jetty curls, the forehead high, The swan like neck, the eagle face, The glowing cheek, the rich dark eye, Proclaim her of the elder race. With flowing locks of auburn hue, And features smooth, and eye of blue, Timid in love as brave in arms, The gentle heir of Seth askance Snatches a bashful, ardent glance At her majestic charms; Blest when across that brow high musing flashes A deeper tint of rose, Thrice blest when from beneath the silken lashes Of her proud eye she throws The smile of blended fondness and disdain Which marks the daughters of the house of Cain.

All hearts are light around the hall Save his who is the lord of all. The painted roofs, the attendant train, The lights, the banquet, all are vain. He sees them not. His fancy strays To other scenes and other days. A cot by a lone forest's edge, A fountain murmuring through the trees, A garden with a wildflower hedge, Whence sounds the music of the bees, A little flock of sheep at rest Upon a mountain's swarthy breast. On his rude spade he seems to lean Beside the well remembered stone, Rejoicing o'er the promised green Of the first harvest man hath sown. He sees his mother's tears; His father's voice he hears, Kind as when first it praised his youthful skill. And soon a seraph-child, In boyish rapture wild, With a light crook comes bounding from the hill, Kisses his hands, and strokes his face, And nestles close in his embrace. In his adamantine eye None might discern his agony; But they who had grown hoary next his side, And read his stern dark face with deepest skill, Could trace strange meanings in that lip of pride, Which for one moment quivered and was still. No time for them to mark or him to feel Those inward stings; for clarion, flute, and lyre, And the rich voices of a countless quire, Burst on the ear in one triumphant peal. In breathless transport sits the admiring throng, As sink and swell the notes of Jubal's lofty song.

"Sound the timbrel, strike the lyre, Wake the trumpet's blast of fire, Till the gilded arches ring. Empire, victory, and fame, Be ascribed unto the name Of our father and our king. Of the deeds which he hath done, Of the spoils which he hath won, Let his grateful children sing. When the deadly fight was fought, When the great revenge was wrought, When on the slaughtered victims lay The minion stiff and cold as they, Doomed to exile, sealed with flame, From the west the wanderer came. Six score years and six he strayed A hunter through the forest shade. The lion's shaggy jaws he tore, To earth he smote the foaming boar, He crushed the dragon's fiery crest, And scaled the condor's dizzy nest; Till hardy sons and daughters fair Increased around his woodland lair. Then his victorious bow unstrung On the great bison's horn he hung. Giraffe and elk he left to hold The wilderness of boughs in peace, And trained his youth to pen the fold, To press the cream, and weave the fleece. As shrunk the streamlet in its bed, As black and scant the herbage grew, O'er endless plains his flocks he led Still to new brooks and postures new. So strayed he till the white pavilions Of his camp were told by millions, Till his children's households seven Were numerous as the stars of heaven. Then he bade us rove no more; And in the place that pleased him best, On the great river's fertile shore, He fixed the city of his rest. He taught us then to bind the sheaves, To strain the palm's delicious milk, And from the dark green mulberry leaves To cull the filmy silk. Then first from straw-built mansions roamed O'er flower-beds trim the skilful bees; Then first the purple wine vats foamed Around the laughing peasant's knees; And olive-yards, and orchards green, O'er all the hills of Nod were seen.

"Of our father and our king Let his grateful children sing. From him our race its being draws, His are our arts, and his our laws. Like himself he bade us be, Proud, and brave, and fierce, and free. True, through every turn of fate, In our friendship and our hate. Calm to watch, yet prompt to dare; Quick to feel, yet firm to bear; Only timid, only weak, Before sweet woman's eye and cheek. We will not serve, we will not know, The God who is our father's foe. In our proud cities to his name No temples rise, no altars flame. Our flocks of sheep, our groves of spice, To him afford no sacrifice. Enough that once the House of Cain Hath courted with oblation vain The sullen power above. Henceforth we bear the yoke no more; The only gods whom we adore Are glory, vengeance, love.

"Of our father and our king Let his grateful children sing. What eye of living thing may brook On his blazing brow to look? What might of living thing may stand Against the strength of his right hand? First he led his armies forth Against the Mammoths of the north, What time they wasted in their pride Pasture and vineyard far and wide. Then the White River's icy flood Was thawed with fire and dyed with blood, And heard for many a league the sound Of the pine forests blazing round, And the death-howl and trampling din Of the gigantic herd within. From the surging sea of flame Forth the tortured monsters came; As of breakers on the shore Was their onset and their roar; As the cedar-trees of God Stood the stately ranks of Nod. One long night and one short day The sword was lifted up to slay. Then marched the firstborn and his sons O'er the white ashes of the wood, And counted of that savage brood Nine times nine thousand skeletons.

"On the snow with carnage red The wood is piled, the skins are spread. A thousand fires illume the sky; Round each a hundred warriors lie. But, long ere half the night was spent, Forth thundered from the golden tent The rousing voice of Cain. A thousand trumps in answer rang And fast to arms the warriors sprang O'er all the frozen plain. A herald from the wealthy bay Hath come with tidings of dismay. From the western ocean's coast Seth hath led a countless host, And vows to slay with fire and sword All who call not on the Lord. His archers hold the mountain forts; His light armed ships blockade the ports; His horsemen tread the harvest down. On twelve proud bridges he hath passed The river dark with many a mast, And pitched his mighty camp at last Before the imperial town.

"On the south and on the west, Closely was the city prest. Before us lay the hostile powers. The breach was wide between the towers. Pulse and meal within were sold For a double weight of gold. Our mighty father had gone forth Two hundred marches to the north. Yet in that extreme of ill We stoutly kept his city still; And swore beneath his royal wall, Like his true sons to fight and fall.

"Hark, hark, to gong and horn, Clarion, and fife, and drum, The morn, the fortieth morn, Fixed for the great assault is come. Between the camp and city spreads A waving sea of helmed heads. From the royal car of Seth Was hung the blood-reg flag of death: At sight of that thrice-hallowed sign Wide flew at once each banner's fold; The captains clashed their arms of gold; The war cry of Elohim rolled Far down their endless line. On the northern hills afar Pealed an answering note of war. Soon the dust in whirlwinds driven, Rushed across the northern heaven. Beneath its shroud came thick and loud The tramp as of a countless crowd; And at intervals were seen Lance and hauberk glancing sheen; And at intervals were heard Charger's neigh and battle word.

"Oh what a rapturous cry From all the city's thousand spires arose, With what a look the hollow eye Of the lean watchman glared upon the foes, With what a yell of joy the mother pressed The moaning baby to her withered breast; When through the swarthy cloud that veiled the plain Burst on his children's sight the flaming brow of Cain!"

There paused perforce that noble song; For from all the joyous throng, Burst forth a rapturous shout which drowned Singer's voice and trumpet's sound. Thrice that stormy clamour fell, Thrice rose again with mightier swell. The last and loudest roar of all Had died along the painted wall. The crowd was hushed; the minstrel train Prepared to strike the chords again; When on each ear distinctly smote A low and wild and wailing note. It moans again. In mute amaze Menials, and guests, and harpers gaze. They look above, beneath, around, No shape doth own that mournful sound. It comes not from the tuneful quire; It comes not from the feasting peers. There is no tone of earthly lyre So soft, so sad, so full of tears. Then a strange horror came on all Who sate at that high festival. The far famed harp, the harp of gold, Dropped from Jubal's trembling hold. Frantic with dismay the bride Clung to her Ahirad's side. And the corpse-like hue of dread Ahirad's haughty face o'erspread. Yet not even in that agony of awe Did the young leader of the fair-haired race From Tirzah's shuddering grasp his hand withdraw, Or turn his eyes from Tirzah's livid face. The tigers to their lord retreat, And crouch and whine beneath his feet. Prone sink to earth the golden shielded seven. All hearts are cowed save his alone Who sits upon the emerald throne; For he hath heard Elohim speak from heaven. Still thunders in his ear the peal; Still blazes on his front the seal: And on the soul of the proud king No terror of created thing From sky, or earth, or hell, hath power Since that unutterable hour.

He rose to speak, but paused, and listening stood, Not daunted, but in sad and curious mood, With knitted brow, and searching eye of fire. A deathlike silence sank on all around, And through the boundless space was heard no sound, Save the soft tones of that mysterious lyre. Broken, faint, and low, At first the numbers flow. Louder, deeper, quicker, still Into one fierce peal they swell, And the echoing palace fill With a strange funereal yell. A voice comes forth. But what, or where? On the earth, or in the air? Like the midnight winds that blow Round a lone cottage in the snow, With howling swell and sighing fall, It wails along the trophied hall. In such a wild and dreary moan The watches of the Seraphim Poured out all night their plaintive hymn Before the eternal throne. Then, when from many a heavenly eye Drops as of earthly pity fell For her who had aspire too high, For him who loved too well. When, stunned by grief, the gentle pair From the nuptial garden fair, Linked in a sorrowful caress, Strayed through the untrodden wilderness; And close behind their footsteps came The desolating sword of flame, And drooped the cedared alley's pride, And fountains shrank, and roses died.

"Rejoice, O Son of God, rejoice," Sang that melancholy voice, "Rejoice, the maid is fair to see; The bower is decked for her and thee; The ivory lamps around it throw A soft and pure and mellow glow. Where'er the chastened lustre falls On roof or cornice, floor or walls, Woven of pink and rose appear Such words as love delights to hear. The breath of myrrh, the lute's soft sound, Float through the moonlight galleries round. O'er beds of violet and through groves of spice, Lead thy proud bride into the nuptial bower; For thou hast bought her with a fearful price, And she hath dowered thee with a fearful dower. The price is life. The dower is death. Accursed loss! Accursed gain! For her thou givest the blessedness of Seth, And to thine arms she brings the curse of Cain.

Round the dark curtains of the fiery throne Pauses awhile the voice of sacred song: From all the angelic ranks goes forth a groan, 'How long, O Lord, how long?' The still small voice makes answer, 'Wait and see, Oh sons of glory, what the end shall be.'

"But, in the outer darkness of the place Where God hath shown his power without his grace, Is laughter and the sound of glad acclaim, Loud as when, on wings of fire, Fulfilled of his malign desire, From Paradise the conquering serpent came. The giant ruler of the morning star From off his fiery bed Lifts high his stately head, Which Michael's sword hath marked with many a scar. At his voice the pit of hell Answers with a joyous yell, And flings her dusky portals wide For the bridegroom and the bride.

"But louder still shall be the din In the halls of Death and Sin, When the full measure runneth o'er, When mercy can endure no more, When he who vainly proffers grace, Comes in his fury to deface The fair creation of his hand; When from the heaven streams down amain For forty days the sheeted rain; And from his ancient barriers free, With a deafening roar the sea Comes foaming up the land. Mother, cast thy babe aside: Bridegroom, quit thy virgin bride: Brother, pass thy brother by: 'Tis for life, for life, ye fly. Along the drear horizon raves The swift advancing line of waves. On: on: their frothy crests appear Each moment nearer, and more near. Urge the dromedary's speed; Spur to death the reeling steed; If perchance ye yet may gain The mountains that o'erhang the plain.

"Oh thou haughty land of Nod, Hear the sentence of thy God. Thou hast said, 'Of all the hills Whence, after autumn rains, the rills In silver trickle down, The fairest is that mountain white Which intercepts the morning light From Cain's imperial town. On its first and gentlest swell Are pleasant halls where nobles dwell; And marble porticoes are seen Peeping through terraced gardens green. Above are olives, palms, and vines; And higher yet the dark-blue pines; And highest on the summit shines The crest of everlasting ice. Here let the God of Abel own That human art hath wonders shown Beyond his boasted paradise.'

"Therefore on that proud mountain's crown Thy few surviving sons and daughters Shall see their latest sun go down Upon a boundless waste of waters. None salutes and none replies; None heaves a groan or breathes a prayer They crouch on earth with tearless eyes, And clenched hands, and bristling hair. The rain pours on: no star illumes The blackness of the roaring sky. And each successive billow booms Nigher still and still more nigh. And now upon the howling blast The wreaths of spray come thick and fast; And a great billow by the tempest curled Falls with a thundering crash; and all is o'er. In what is left of all this glorious world? A sky without a beam, a sea without a shore.

"Oh thou fair land, where from their starry home Cherub and seraph oft delight to roam, Thou city of the thousand towers, Thou palace of the golden stairs, Ye gardens of perennial flowers, Ye moted gates, ye breezy squares; Ye parks amidst whose branches high Oft peers the squirrel's sparkling eye; Ye vineyards, in whose trellised shade Pipes many a youth to many a maid; Ye ports where rides the gallant ship, Ye marts where wealthy burghers meet; Ye dark green lanes which know the trip Of woman's conscious feet; Ye grassy meads where, when the day is done, The shepherd pens his fold; Ye purple moors on which the setting sun Leaves a rich fringe of gold; Ye wintry deserts where the larches grow; Ye mountains on whose everlasting snow No human foot hath trod; Many a fathom shall ye sleep Beneath the grey and endless deep, In the great day of the revenge of God."

*****



THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE.—AN ELECTION BALLAD. (1827.)

As I sate down to breakfast in state, At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring, With Betty beside me to wait, Came a rap that almost beat the door in. I laid down my basin of tea, And Betty ceased spreading the toast, "As sure as a gun, sir," said she, "That must be the knock of the post."

A letter—and free—bring it here— I have no correspondent who franks. No! Yes! Can it be? Why, my dear, 'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. "Dear sir, as I know you desire That the Church should receive due protection, I humbly presume to require Your aid at the Cambridge election.

"It has lately been brought to my knowledge, That the Ministers fully design To suppress each cathedral and college, And eject every learned divine. To assist this detestable scheme Three nuncios from Rome are come over; They left Calais on Monday by steam, And landed to dinner at Dover.

"An army of grim Cordeliers, Well furnished with relics and vermin, Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears, To effect what their chiefs may determine. Lollard's bower, good authorities say, Is again fitting up for a prison; And a wood-merchant told me to-day 'Tis a wonder how faggots have risen.

"The finance scheme of Canning contains A new Easter-offering tax; And he means to devote all the gains To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. Your living, so neat and compact— Pray, don't let the news give you pain!— Is promised, I know for a fact, To an olive-faced Padre from Spain."

I read, and I felt my heart bleed, Sore wounded with horror and pity; So I flew, with all possible speed, To our Protestant champion's committee. True gentlemen, kind and well-bred! No fleering! no distance! no scorn! They asked after my wife who is dead, And my children who never were born.

They then, like high-principled Tories, Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady, And assailed him with scandalous stories, Till the coach for the voters was ready. That coach might be well called a casket Of learning and brotherly love: There were parsons in boot and in basket; There were parsons below and above.

There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches; A smug chaplain of plausible air, Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches. Dr Buzz, who alone is a host, Who, with arguments weighty as lead, Proves six times a week in the Post That flesh somehow differs from bread.

Dr Nimrod, whose orthodox toes Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup; Dr Humdrum, whose eloquence flows, Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup; Dr Rosygill puffing and fanning, And wiping away perspiration; Dr Humbug who proved Mr Canning The beast in St John's Revelation.

A layman can scarce form a notion Of our wonderful talk on the road; Of the learning, the wit, and devotion, Which almost each syllable showed: Why divided allegiance agrees So ill with our free constitution; How Catholics swear as they please, In hope of the priest's absolution;

How the Bishop of Norwich had bartered His faith for a legate's commission; How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyr'd, Had stooped to a base coalition; How Papists are cased from compassion By bigotry, stronger than steel; How burning would soon come in fashion, And how very bad it must feel.

We were all so much touched and excited By a subject so direly sublime, That the rules of politeness were slighted, And we all of us talked at a time; And in tones, which each moment grew louder, Told how we should dress for the show, And where we should fasten the powder, And if we should bellow or no.

Thus from subject to subject we ran, And the journey passed pleasantly o'er, Till at last Dr Humdrum began; From that time I remember no more. At Ware he commenced his prelection, In the dullest of clerical drones; And when next I regained recollection We were rambling o'er Trumpington stones.

*****



SONG. (1827.)

O stay, Madonna! stay; 'Tis not the dawn of day That marks the skies with yonder opal streak: The stars in silence shine; Then press thy lips to mine, And rest upon my neck thy fervid cheek.

O sleep, Madonna! sleep; Leave me to watch and weep O'er the sad memory of departed joys, O'er hope's extinguished beam, O'er fancy's vanished dream; O'er all that nature gives and man destroys.

O wake, Madonna! wake; Even now the purple lake Is dappled o'er with amber flakes of light; A glow is on the hill; And every trickling rill In golden threads leaps down from yonder height.

O fly, Madonna! fly, Lest day and envy spy What only love and night may safely know: Fly, and tread softly, dear! Lest those who hate us hear The sounds of thy light footsteps as they go.

*****



POLITICAL GEORGICS. (MARCH 1828.)

"Quid faciat laetas segetes," etc.

How cabinets are formed, and how destroy'd, How Tories are confirmed, and Whigs decoy'd, How in nice times a prudent man should vote, At what conjuncture he should turn his coat, The truths fallacious, and the candid lies, And all the lore of sleek majorities, I sing, great Premier. Oh, mysterious two, Lords of our fate, the Doctor and the Jew, If, by your care enriched, the aspiring clerk Quits the close alley for the breezy park, And Dolly's chops and Reid's entire resigns For odorous fricassees and costly wines; And you, great pair, through Windsor's shades who rove, The Faun and Dryad of the conscious grove; All, all inspire me, for of all I sing, Doctor and Jew, and M—s and K—g. Thou, to the maudlin muse of Rydal dear; Thou more than Neptune, Lowther, lend thine ear. At Neptune's voice the horse, with flowing mane And pawing hoof, sprung from the obedient plain; But at thy word the yawning earth, in fright, Engulf'd the victor steed from mortal sight. Haste from thy woods, mine Arbuthnot, with speed, Rich woods, where lean Scotch cattle love to feed: Let Gaffer Gooch and Boodle's patriot band, Fat from the leanness of a plundered land, True Cincinnati, quit their patent ploughs, Their new steam-harrows, and their premium sows; Let all in bulky majesty appear, Roll the dull eye, and yawn th' unmeaning cheer. Ye veteran Swiss, of senatorial wars, Who glory in your well-earned sticks and stars; Ye diners-out from whom we guard our spoons; Ye smug defaulters; ye obscene buffoons; Come all, of every race and size and form, Corruption's children, brethren of the worm; From those gigantic monsters who devour The pay of half a squadron in an hour, To those foul reptiles, doomed to night and scorn, Of filth and stench equivocally born; From royal tigers down to toads and lice; From Bathursts, Clintons, Fanes, to H— and P—; Thou last, by habit and by nature blest With every gift which serves a courtier best, The lap-dog spittle, the hyaena bile, The maw of shark, the tear of crocodile, Whate'er high station, undetermined yet, Awaits thee in the longing Cabinet,— Whether thou seat thee in the room of Peel, Or from Lord Prig extort the Privy Seal, Or our Field-marshal-Treasurer fix on thee, A legal admiral, to rule the sea, Or Chancery-suits, beneath thy well known reign, Turn to their nap of fifty years again; (Already L—, prescient of his fate, Yields half his woolsack to thy mightier weight;) Oh! Eldon, in whatever sphere thou shine, For opposition sure will ne'er be thine, Though scowls apart the lonely pride of Grey, Though Devonshire proudly flings his staff away, Though Lansdowne, trampling on his broken chain, Shine forth the Lansdowne of our hearts again, Assist me thou; for well I deem, I see An abstract of my ample theme in thee. Thou, as thy glorious self hath justly said, From earliest youth, wast pettifogger bred, And, raised to power by fortune's fickle will, Art head and heart a pettifogger still. So, where once Fleet-ditch ran confessed, we vie A crowded mart and stately avenue; But the black stream beneath runs on the same, Still brawls in W—'s key,—still stinks like H—'s name.