Poems, Dialogues in Verse and Epigrams :: :: University of Virginia Library

Glory to those who give it! who erect
The bronze and marble, not where frothy tongue
Or bloody hand points out, no, but where God
Ordains the humble to walk forth before
The humble, and mount higher than the high.
Wisely, O Sheffield, wisely hast thou done
To place thy Elliott on the plinth of fame,
Wisely hast chosen for that solemn deed
One like himself, born where no mother's love
Wrapt purple round him, nor rang golden bells,
Pendent from Libyan coral, in his ear,
To catch a smile or calm a petulance,
Nor tickled downy scalp with Belgic lace;
But whom strong Genius took from Poverty
And said, Rise, mother, and behold thy child!
She rose, and Pride rose with her, but was mute.

Three Elliotts there have been, three glorious men
Each in his generation. One was doom'd
By Despotism and Prelaty to pine
In the damp dungeon, and to die for Law,
Rackt by slow tortures ere he reacht the grave.
A second hurl'd his thunderbolt and flame
When Gaul and Spaniard moor'd their pinnaces,
Screaming defiance at Gibraltar's frown,

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Until one moment more, and other screams
And other writhings rose above the wave,
From sails afire and hissing where they fell,
And men half burnt along the buoyant mast.
A third came calmly on, and askt the rich
To give laborious hunger daily bread,
As they in childhood had been taught to pray
By God's own Son, and sometimes have prayed since.
God heard; but they heard not: God sent down bread;
They took it, kept it all, and cried for more,
Hollowing both hands to catch and clutch the crumbs.

I may not live to hear another voice,
Elliott, of power to penetrate, as thine,
Dense multitudes; another none may see
Leading the Muses from unthrifty shades
To fields where corn gladdens the heart of Man,
And where the trumpet with defiant blast
Blows in the face of War, and yields to Peace.
Therefore take thou these leaves . . fresh, firm, tho' scant
To crown the City that crowns thee her son.
She must decay; Toledo hath decayed;
Ebro hath half-forgotten what bright arms
Flasht on his waters, what high dames adorn'd
The baldric, what torn flags o'erhung the aisle,
What parting gift the ransom'd knight exchanged.
But louder than the anvil rings the lyre;
And thine hath raised another city's wall
In solid strength to a proud eminence,
Which neither conqueror, crushing braver men,
Nor time, o'ercoming conqueror, can destroy.
So now, ennobled by thy birth, to thee
She lifts, with pious love, the thoughtful stone.
Genius is tired in search of Gratitude;
Here they have met; may neither say farewell!