Round the husbandman’s head, while he traces the furrow, The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, 10 He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, And sigh while he fears he has sowed it in vain; He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness, But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim; And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sadness, 15 While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Though anxious and timeless his life was expended, In foils for our Country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o’er the nations ascended, To light the long darkness of doubt and despair; 20 The storms he endured in our Britain’s December, The perils his wisdom foresaw and o’ercame, For her glory’s rich harvest shall Britain remember And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Nor forget this gray head, who, all dark in affliction, 25 Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection, The shout of his people applauding his son; By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster, By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! 30 With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name. Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure, The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure, 35 The wisdom that planned, and the zeal that obeyed! Fill Wellington’s cup till it beam like his glory, Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Græme, A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story, And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame. 40 _Sir Walter Scott._ CCXV _TO THE MEMORY OF PIETRO D’ALESSANDRO_, SECRETARY TO THE PROVINCIAL GOVERNMENT OF SICILY IN 1848, WHO DIED AN EXILE AT MALTA IN JANUARY 1855. Beside the covered grave Linger the exiles, though their task is done. Yes, brethren; from your band one more is gone, A good man and a brave. Scanty the rites, and train; 5 How many’ of all the storied marbles, set In all thy churches, City of La Valette, Hide nobler heart and brain? Ah! had his soul been cold, Tempered to make a sycophant or spy, 10 To love hard truth less than an easy lie, His country less than gold,-- Then, not the spirit’s strife, Nor sickening pangs at sight of conquering crime, Nor anxious watching of an evil time, 15 Had worn his chords of life: