And ancient Europe hide herself in foam, Mother of heroes, nurse of beauteous arts, Of serious letters and high Christian truth, Rich bower of beauty, garden fenced with men, 60 And gorgeous with all blooms of womanhood, Temple inviolate of faith and truth And liberty--until the iron time. She for a while shall seem to us far off, A speck of dimness on the sunbright shield, 65 A roughness on the fine encircling thread, Until the horizon show a perfect ring, And the free nation ride on vaster waves, Plunge onward into more transparent seas, Under more deep ambrosial domes of night, 70 Into that second Holland like the first, But glad with fuller harvests, richer fruits, Where neither Frenchmen nor rude seas encroach. _John Robertson._ CCLXXIII _THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS._ _Last night_, among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore; A drunken private of the Buffs, Who never looked before. _To-day_, beneath the foeman’s frown, 5 He stands in Elgin’s place, Ambassador from Britain’s crown, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, 10 A heart, with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord, or axe, or flame: He only knows, that not through _him_ 15 Shall England come to shame. Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, One sheet of living snow; 20 The smoke, above his father’s door, In gray soft eddyings hung: Must he then watch it rise no more, Doomed by himself, so young? Yes, honour calls!--with strength like steel 25 He put the vision by; Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, 30 Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went. Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed; Vain, those all-shattering guns; Unless proud England keep, untamed, 35 The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring-- A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king, Because his soul was great. 40 _Sir Francis Hastings Doyle._ CCLXXIV _ON A PICTURE BY TURNER._