Miscellaneous Writings and Speeches - Volume 3, Thomas Badington Macaulay [e books for reading txt] 📗

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.

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THE DELIVERANCE OF VIENNA.

TRANSLATED FROM VINCENZIO DA FILICAIA.

(Published in the "Winter's Wreath," Liverpool, 1828.)

"Le corde d'oro elette," etc.

The chords, the sacred chords of gold, Strike, O Muse, in measure bold; And frame a sparkling wreath of joyous songs For that great God to whom revenge belongs. Who shall resist his might, Who marshals for the fight Earthquake and thunder, hurricane and flame? He smote the haughty race Of unbelieving Thrace, And turned their rage to fear, their pride to shame. He looked in wrath from high, Upon their vast array; And, in the twinkling of an eye, Tambour, and trump, and battle-cry, And steeds, and turbaned infantry, Passed like a dream away. Such power defends the mansions of the just: But, like a city without walls, The grandeur of the mortal falls Who glories in his strength, and makes not God his trust. The proud blasphemers thought all earth their own; They deemed that soon the whirlwind of their ire Would sweep down tower and palace, dome and spire, The Christian altars and the Augustan throne. And soon, they cried, shall Austria bow To the dust her lofty brow. The princedoms of Almayne Shall wear the Phrygian chain; In humbler waves shall vassal Tiber roll; And Rome a slave forlorn, Her laurelled tresses shorn, Shall feel our iron in her inmost soul. Who shall bid the torrent stay? Who shall bar the lightning's way? Who arrest the advancing van Of the fiery Ottoman?

As the curling smoke-wreaths fly When fresh breezes clear the sky, Passed away each swelling boast Of the misbelieving host. From the Hebrus rolling far Came the murky cloud of war, And in shower and tempest dread Burst on Austria's fenceless head. But not for vaunt or threat Didst Thou, O Lord, forget The flock so dearly bought, and loved so well.

Even in the very hour Of guilty pride and power Full on the circumcised Thy vengeance fell. Then the fields were heaped with dead, Then the streams with gore were red, And every bird of prey, and every beast, From wood and cavern thronged to Thy great feast.

What terror seized the fiends obscene of Nile! How wildly, in his place of doom beneath, Arabia's lying prophet gnashed his teeth, And cursed his blighted hopes and wasted guile! When, at the bidding of Thy sovereign might, Flew on their destined path Thy messages of wrath, Riding on storms and wrapped in deepest night. The Phthian mountains saw, And quaked with mystic awe: The proud Sultana of the Straits bowed down Her jewelled neck and her embattled crown. The miscreants, as they raised their eyes Glaring defiance on Thy skies, Saw adverse winds and clouds display The terrors of their black array;- Saw each portentous star Whose fiery aspect turned of yore to flight The iron chariots of the Canaanite Gird its bright harness for a deadlier war.

Beneath Thy withering look Their limbs with palsy shook; Scattered on earth the crescent banners lay; Trembled with panic fear Sabre and targe and spear, Through the proud armies of the rising day. Faint was each heart, unnerved each hand; And, if they strove to charge or stand Their efforts were as vain As his who, scared in feverish sleep By evil dreams, essays to leap, Then backward falls again. With a crash of wild dismay, Their ten thousand ranks gave way; Fast they broke, and fast they fled; Trampled, mangled, dying, dead, Horse and horsemen mingled lay; Till the mountains of the slain Raised the valleys to the plain. Be all the glory to Thy name divine! The swords were our's; the arm, O Lord, was Thine. Therefore to Thee, beneath whose footstool wait The powers which erring man calls Chance and Fate, To Thee who hast laid low The pride of Europe's foe, And taught Byzantium's sullen lords to fear, I pour my spirit out In a triumphant shout, And call all ages and all lands to hear. Thou who evermore endurest, Loftiest, mightiest, wisest, purest, Thou whose will destroys or saves, Dread of tyrants, hope of slaves, The wreath of glory is from Thee, And the red sword of victory.

There where exulting Danube's flood Runs stained with Islam's noblest blood From that tremendous field, There where in mosque the tyrants met, And from the crier's minaret Unholy summons pealed, Pure shrines and temples now shall be Decked for a worship worthy Thee. To Thee thy whole creation pays With mystic sympathy its praise, The air, the earth, the seas: The day shines forth with livelier beam; There is a smile upon the stream, An anthem on the breeze. Glory, they cry, to Him whose might Hath turned the barbarous foe to flight, Whose arm protects with power divine The city of his favoured line. The caves, the woods, the rocks, repeat the sound; The everlasting hills roll the long echoes round.

But, if Thy rescued church may dare Still to besiege Thy throne with prayer, Sheathe not, we implore Thee, Lord, Sheathe not Thy victorious sword. Still Panonia pines away, Vassal of a double sway: Still Thy servants groan in chains, Still the race which hates Thee reigns: Part the living from the dead: Join the members to the head: Snatch Thine own sheep from yon fell monster's hold; Let one kind shepherd rule one undivided fold.

He is the victor, only he Who reaps the fruits of victory. We conquered once in vain, When foamed the Ionian waves with gore, And heaped Lepanto's stormy shore With wrecks and Moslem slain. Yet wretched Cyprus never broke The Syrian tyrant's iron yoke. Shall the twice vanquished foe Again repeat his blow? Shall Europe's sword be hung to rust in peace? No-let the red-cross ranks Of the triumphant Franks Bear swift deliverance to the shrines of Greece And in her inmost heart let Asia feel The avenging plagues of Western fire and steel.

Oh God! for one short moment raise The veil which hides those glorious days. The flying foes I see Thee urge Even to the river's headlong verge.

Close on their rear the loud uproar Of fierce pursuit from Ister's shore Comes pealing on the wind; The Rab's wild waters are before, The Christian sword behind. Sons of perdition, speed your flight, No earthly spear is in the rest; No earthly champion leads to fight The warriors of the West. The Lord of Host asserts His old renown, Scatters, and smites, and slays, and tramples down. Fast, fast beyond what mortal tongue can say, Or mortal fancy dream, He rushes on his prey: Till, with the terrors of the wondrous theme Bewildered, and appalled, I cease to sing, And close my dazzled eye, and rest my wearied wing.

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THE LAST BUCCANEER.

(1839.)

The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear, When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer.

"Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas? Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?"

"From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound, Without rudder or needle we steer; Above, below, our bark, dies the sea-fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer.

"To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde, A loud crash, and a louder roar; And to-morrow shall the deep, with a heavy moaning, sweep The corpses and wreck to the shore."

The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride, In the breath of the citron shades; And Severn's towering mast securely now flies fast, Through the sea of the balmy Trades.

From St Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal fort, The seaman goes forth without fear; For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight Of the flag of the last Buccaneer.

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EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE.

(1845.)

To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away. And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting place I asked, an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I spake like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

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LINES WRITTEN IN AUGUST.

(1847.)

The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er; Worn out with toil, and noise, and scorn, and spleen, I slumbered, and in slumber saw once more A room in an old mansion, long unseen.

That room, methought, was curtained from the light; Yet through the curtains shone the moon's cold ray Full on a cradle, where, in linen white, Sleeping life's first soft sleep, an infant lay.

Pale flickered on the hearth the dying flame, And all was silent in that ancient hall, Save when by fits on the low night-wind came The murmur of the distant waterfall.

And lo! the fairy queens who rule our birth Drew nigh to speak the new-born baby's doom: With noiseless step, which left no trace on earth, From gloom they came, and vanished into gloom.

Not deigning on the