 | Poems |  |
222
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Where all that strikes th' admiring eye
Breathes beauty and sublimity;
Where the cool air and tranquil light
The world-worn heart to peace invite;
Whence comes this sadness, pure and holy,
This calm resistless, melancholy?
This hallowed fear, this awe-struck feeling?
Comes it from yonder organ pealing?
From low chaunt, stealing up the aisle?
From clos'd gate echoing through the pile?
From storied windows, glancing high?
From bannerets of chivalry?
Or from yon holy chapel, seen
Dimly athwart the Gothic screen?
No, 'tis the stranger's solemn tread,
Resounding o'er the mighty dead!
He came to see thy wond'rous state,
The wise, the beautiful, the great;
Thy glory, Empress of the Wave,
He came to see—and found a grave:
But such a grave, as never yet
To Statesman paid a people's debt!
In battle-strife, the Hero's sigh
Is breath'd for thee, or victory!
And Bards immortal, find in thee
A second Immortality!
Breathes beauty and sublimity;
Where the cool air and tranquil light
The world-worn heart to peace invite;
Whence comes this sadness, pure and holy,
This calm resistless, melancholy?
This hallowed fear, this awe-struck feeling?
Comes it from yonder organ pealing?
From low chaunt, stealing up the aisle?
From clos'd gate echoing through the pile?
223
From bannerets of chivalry?
Or from yon holy chapel, seen
Dimly athwart the Gothic screen?
No, 'tis the stranger's solemn tread,
Resounding o'er the mighty dead!
He came to see thy wond'rous state,
The wise, the beautiful, the great;
Thy glory, Empress of the Wave,
He came to see—and found a grave:
But such a grave, as never yet
To Statesman paid a people's debt!
In battle-strife, the Hero's sigh
Is breath'd for thee, or victory!
And Bards immortal, find in thee
A second Immortality!
He, who first rais'd from gothic gloom
Our tongue; here Chaucer finds a tomb:
Here gentle Spencer; foulest stain
Of his own Gloriana's reign!
And he, who mock'd at Art's control,
The mighty master of the soul,
Shakespeare, our Shakespeare! by his side,
The man who pour'd his mighty tide:
The brightest union Genius wrought,
Was Garrick's voice, and Shakespeare's thought.
Here Milton's heaven-strung lyre reposes;
Here Dryden's meteor brilliance closes:
Here Newton lies,—and with him lie,
The thousand glories of our sky:
Stars, numerous as the host of Heaven!
And radiant as the flashing levin!
Our tongue; here Chaucer finds a tomb:
224
Of his own Gloriana's reign!
And he, who mock'd at Art's control,
The mighty master of the soul,
Shakespeare, our Shakespeare! by his side,
The man who pour'd his mighty tide:
The brightest union Genius wrought,
Was Garrick's voice, and Shakespeare's thought.
Here Milton's heaven-strung lyre reposes;
Here Dryden's meteor brilliance closes:
Here Newton lies,—and with him lie,
The thousand glories of our sky:
Stars, numerous as the host of Heaven!
And radiant as the flashing levin!
Lo, Chatham! The immortal name,
Graven in the patriot's heart of flame!
Here, his long course of honors run,
The mighty Father's mighty Son!
And here—Ah wipe that falling tear!
Last, best, and greatest, Fox lies here!
Here sleep they all: On the wide Earth
There dwell not men of mortal birth,
Would dare contest fame's glorious race
With those who fill this little space.
Oh could some wizard spell revive
The buried dead, and bid them live,
It were a sight to charm dull age,
The infant's roving eye engage,
The wounded heal, the deaf man cure,
The widow from her tears allure,
And moping idiots tell the story
Of England's bliss, and England's glory!
Graven in the patriot's heart of flame!
Here, his long course of honors run,
The mighty Father's mighty Son!
225
Last, best, and greatest, Fox lies here!
Here sleep they all: On the wide Earth
There dwell not men of mortal birth,
Would dare contest fame's glorious race
With those who fill this little space.
Oh could some wizard spell revive
The buried dead, and bid them live,
It were a sight to charm dull age,
The infant's roving eye engage,
The wounded heal, the deaf man cure,
The widow from her tears allure,
And moping idiots tell the story
Of England's bliss, and England's glory!
And they do live!—our Shakespear's strains
Die not while English tongue remains;
Whilst light and colors spread and fly,
Lives Newton's deathless memory:
Whilst Freedom warms one English breast,
There Fox's honor'd name shall rest:
Yes, they do live!—they live t' inspire
Fame's daring sons with hallow'd fire;
Like sparks from Heaven, they wake the blaze,
The living light of Genius' rays:
Bid England's glories flash across the gloom,
And catch her Heroes' spirit from their tomb.
Die not while English tongue remains;
Whilst light and colors spread and fly,
Lives Newton's deathless memory:
226
There Fox's honor'd name shall rest:
Yes, they do live!—they live t' inspire
Fame's daring sons with hallow'd fire;
Like sparks from Heaven, they wake the blaze,
The living light of Genius' rays:
Bid England's glories flash across the gloom,
And catch her Heroes' spirit from their tomb.
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