VIII.

But 'mid that graceful meeting, there were none Who yielded not to him--that English guest. Nor by sweet lips, half wooing to be won, Were words that thrill and smiles that sigh suppress'd; And fair with lofty brow, and locks of gold, And manhood stately with a Dorian grace, He seem'd like some young Spartan, when of old The simple sons of thoughtful Hercules On Elis stood, and look'd the lords of Greece. Oh! little dream'd those flatterers as they gazed On him--the radiant cynosure of all, While on their eyes his youth's fresh glory blazed, What that bright heart was destined to befall! That worst of wars--the Battle of the Soil-- Which leaves but Crime unscath'd on either side! The daily fever, and the midnight toil; The hope defeated, and the name belied; Wrath's fierce attack, and Slander's slower art, The watchful viper of the evil tongue;-- The sting which pride defies, but not the heart-- The noblest heart is aye the easiest wrung: The flowers, the fruit, the summer of rich life, Cast on the sands and weariest paths of earth; The march--but not the action--of the strife Without;--and Sorrow coil'd around his hearth: The film, the veil, the shadow, and the night, Along those eyes which now in all survey A tribute and a rapture;--the despite Of Fortune wreak'd on his declining day; The clouds slow-labouring upward round his heart;-- Oh! little dream'd they this!--nor less what light Should through those clouds--a new-born glory--start; And from the spot man's mystic Father trod, Circling the round Earth with a solemn ray, Cast its great shadow to the Throne of God!