LII TWO VICTORIES I said, when evil men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long, A weak and cowardly untruth! Our Clifford was a happy Youth, And thankful through a weary time That brought him up to manhood's prime. Again, he wanders forth at will, And tends a flock from hill to hill: His garb is humble; ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien; Among the shepherd grooms no mate Hath he, a Child of strength and state! Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, Nor yet for higher sympathy. To his side the fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stooped down to pay him fealty; And both the undying fish that swim Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him; The pair were servants of his eye In their immortality; And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, Moved to and fro, for his delight. He knew the rocks which Angels haunt Upon the mountains visitant; He hath kenned them taking wing: And into caves where Faeries sing He hath entered; and been told By Voices how men lived of old. Among the heavens his eye can see The face of thing that is to be; And, if that men report him right, His tongue could whisper words of might. Now another day is come, Fitter hope, and nobler doom; He hath thrown aside his crook, And hath buried deep his book; Armour rusting in his halls On the blood of Clifford calls: 'Quell the Scot!' exclaims the Lance; 'Bear me to the heart of France,' Is the longing of the Shield; Tell thy name, thou trembling field; Field of death, where'er thou be, Groan thou with our victory! Happy day, and mighty hour, When our Shepherd in his power, Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, To his ancestors restored Like a reappearing Star, Like a glory from afar, First shall head the flock of war! _Wordsworth._ LIII IN MEMORIAM NELSON: PITT: FOX To mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears, And in her glory reappears. But O my Country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise; The mind that thought for Britain's weal, The hand that grasped the victor steel? The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly may he shine, Where glory weeps o'er NELSON's shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallowed tomb! Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave; To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given. Where'er his country's foes were found Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Rolled, blazed, destroyed,--and was no more.