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Patriotism 02 Nelson, Pitt, Fox by Sir Walter Scott |
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TO mute and
to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory
reappears.
But oh, my Country's wintry state
What
second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call
shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise;
The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The
hand that grasp'd the victor steel?
The vernal sun
new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that
blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine
Where glory
weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine;
And vainly pierce the
solemn gloom
That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!
Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let
those names depart!
Say to your sons,--Lo, here his
grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave!
To him, as
to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless
course was given.
Where'er his country's foes were
found
Was heard the fated thunder's sound,
Till
burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Roll'd, blazed,
destroy'd--and was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his
perish'd worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia,
Trafalgar;
Who, born to guide such high emprise,
For Britain's weal was early wise;
Alas! to whom the
Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave!
--His worth, who in his mightiest hour
A bauble held
the pride of power,
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of
pelf,
And served his Albion for herself;
Who, when
the frantic crowd amain
Strain'd at subjection's
bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest
gain'd,
The pride he would not crush, restrain'd,
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And
brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.
Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,
A
watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had
roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
Our pilots had kept
course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne.
Now is
the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is
quench'd in smoke,
The trumpet's silver voice is
still,
The warder silent on the hill!
O think,
how to his latest day,
When Death, just hovering,
claim'd his prey,
With Palinure's unalter'd mood
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for
needful rest repell'd,
With dying hand the rudder
held,
Till in his fall with fateful sway
The
steerage of the realm gave way.
Then--while on
Britain's thousand plains
One polluted church
remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still upon
the hallow'd day
Convoke the swains to praise and
pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace
this cold marble with a tear:--
He who preserved
them, PITT, lies here!
Nor yet suppress the
generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy Requiescat dumb
Lest it be said o'er Fox's
tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best
employ'd, and wanted most;
Mourn genius high, and
lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine
To penetrate,
resolve, combine;
And feelings keen, and fancy's
glow--
They sleep with him who sleeps below:
And,
if thou mourn'st they could not save
From error him
who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought
suppress'd,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes,
patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and
still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and
sung;
Here, where the fretted vaults prolong
The
distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke
agen,
'All peace on earth, good-will to men';
If
ever from an English heart,
O, here let prejudice
depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record
that Fox a Briton died!
When Europe crouch'd to
France's yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave
Was barter'd by
a timorous slave--
Even then dishonour's peace he
spurn'd,
The sullied olive-branch return'd,
Stood
for his country's glory fast,
And nail'd her colours
to the mast!
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honour'd grave;
And ne'er held
marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the
dust.
With more than mortal powers endow'd,
How high they soar'd above the crowd!
Theirs was no
common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for
place;
Like fabled gods, their mighty war
Shook
realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner
proud to stand,
Look'd up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were known
The names
of PITT and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard
grave
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though
his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets
from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spent with
these,
The wine of life is on the lees.
Genius,
and taste, and talent gone,
For ever tomb'd beneath
the stone,
Where--taming thought to human pride!--
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's
grave the tear,
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier;
O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox's
shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to
cry,
'Here let their discord with them die.
Speak
not for those a separate doom
Whom fate made Brothers
in the tomb;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen?'
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