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Here all the mighty troublers of the earth,
Who swam to sov'reign rule through seas of blood;
The oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains,
Who ravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste,
And in a cruel wantonness of power

Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up
To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent,
Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind thy covert.
Vain thought! to hide them from the general scorn
That haunts and dogs them like an injur'd ghost
Implacable.
Blair's Grave.

Proud royalty! how alter'd in thy looks!

How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue! Ibid.

Here too the petty tyrant,

Whose scant domains geographer ne'er notic'd,

And, well for neighb'ring grounds, of arm as short,
Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor,

And grip'd them like some lordly beast of prey;
Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger,
And piteous plaintive voice of misery,
(As if a slave was not a shred of nature

Of the same common nature with his lord,)

Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipp'd, Shakes hand with dust, and calls the worm his kins

man;

Nor pleads his rank and birth-right. Under ground
Precedency's a jest; vassal and lord,
Grossly familiar, side by side consumé.

Where are the nightly thunder-bolts of war?
The Roman Cæsars and the Grecian chiefs,

Ibid.

The boast of story? Where the hot-brain'd youth,
Who the tiara at his pleasure tore

From kings of all the then discover'd globe,
And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hamper'd,
Andhad not room enough to do its work!

Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim !
And cramm'd into a place we blush to name.
Blair's Grave.

Here the tongue-warrior lies! disabled now,
Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd
And cannot tell his ail to passers-by.

Great man of language! whence this mighty change?
This dumb despair, and drooping of the head?
Tho' strong persuasion hung upon thy lip,

And sly insinuation's softer arts

In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue;
Alas! how chap-fall'n now! thick mists and silence
Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast
Unceasing. Ah! where is the lifted arm,
The strength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tun'd verse,
With all the lesser ornaments of phrase?
Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been !
Raz'd from the book of fame; or, more provoking,
Perhaps some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler
Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes,
With heavy-halting pace that drawl along;
Enough to rouse a dead man into rage,

And warm with red resentment the wan cheek. Ibid.

Here the great masters of the healing art,
These mighty mock-defrauders of the tomb,
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Resign to fate! Proud Esculapius' son
Where are thy boasted implements of art,

And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health? Ibid.

'Tis here all meet!

The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor;

Men of all climes that never met before;

And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, and Christian. Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,

His sov'reign's keeper, and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abash'd
The great negociators of the earth,

And celebrated masters of the balance,

Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts;
Now vain their treaty skill! Death scorns to treat.
Blair's Grave.

Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden
From his gall'd shoulders; and when the cruel tyrant,
With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new, unheard-of hardships,

Mocks his short arm, and, quick as thought, escapes
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.

Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream,
Time out of mind the fav'rite seats of love,
Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down,
Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and foes
Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn-rob'd prelate, and plain presbyter,
Ere while that stood aloof as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like sister streams
That some rude interposing rock had split.

Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette,
The sober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown,

Ibid.

Ibid.

Or half its worth disclos'd. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;

And jovial youth, of lightsome, vacant heart,
Whose every day was made of melody,

Hears not the voice of mirth: the shrill-tongu'd shrew,
Meek as the turtle dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the generous and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, the profane,
The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean,

G

The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks of nations and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.

Blair's Grave.

But know that thou must render up the dead,
And with high interest too! they are not thine;
But only in thy keeping for a season,
Till the great promis'd day of restitution;
When loud diffusive sound of brazen trump
Of strong-lung'd cherub shall alarm thy captives,
And rouse the long, long sleepers into life,
Day-light, and liberty.

GREATNESS.

Ibid.

Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustain'd,
Out-lords succession's phlegm-and needs no ances-

tors.

I am above descent; and prize no blood.

Hill's Merope.

As the swol'n columns of ascending smoke,
So solid swells thy grandeur, pigmy man!

Young's Busiris.

Thrice happy they, who sleep in humble life,
Beneath the storm ambition blows.

'Tis meet

The great should have the fame of happiness,
The consolation of a little envy;

'Tis all their pay for those superior cares,

Those pangs of heart, their vassals ne'er can feel.

Young's Brothers, a. 1.

The power to give creates us oft our foes:
Where many seek for favour, few can find it:
Each thinks he merits all that he can ask ;
And, disappointed, wonders at repulse;
Wonders awhile, and then sits down in hate.

Frowde's Philotas.

Power! 'tis the fav'rite attribute of gods,
Who look with smiles on men, who can aspire

To copy them.

Martyn's Timoleon.

Could the toiling hind,

The shivering beggar, whom no roof receives,

Wet with the mountain shower, and crouching low
Beneath the naked cliff, his only home,

Could he but read the statesman's secret breast,
But see the horrors there, the wounds, the stabs
From furious passions and avenging guilt,

He would not change his rags and wretchedness
For gilded domes and greatness! Mallet's Mustapha.

Oh! greatness! thou art but a flattering dream,
A wat❜ry bubble, lighter than the air.

Tracy's Periander.

Authority!

Thy worshipp'd symbols round a villain's trunk
Provoke men's mockery, not their reverence.

Jephson's Braganza.

Aye-when the red swol'n stream comes roaring

down

Full many a glorious flower, and stately tree,
Floats on the ruthless tide, whose unfelt sway
Moves not the mire that stagnates at the bottom.

Maturin's Bertram, a. 3, s. 2.

From my youth upwards

My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men,
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes;
The thirst of their ambition was not mine,
The aim of their existence was not mine;

My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,

Made me a stranger.

Byron's Manfred, a. 2, s. 2.

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