Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o’er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. _Macaulay._ LVI A JACOBITE’S EPITAPH To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood’s prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting-place I asked--an early grave. O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I speak like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here. _Lord Macaulay._ TRENCH LVII THE TASK Yes, let us own it in confession free, That when we girt ourselves to quell the wrong, We deemed it not so giant-like and strong, But it with our slight effort thought to see Pushed from its base; yea, almost deemed that we, Champions of right, might be excused the price Of pain, and loss, and large self-sacrifice, Set ever on high things by Heav’n’s decree. What if this work’s great hardness was concealed From us, until so far upon our way That no escape remained us, no retreat,-- Lest, being at an earlier hour revealed, We might have shrunk too weakly from the heat, And shunned the burden of this fiery day? _Richard Chenevix Trench._ LVIII THE UNFORGOTTEN Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own, And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride? As thou art just, oh then not those alone Who nobly conquering lived, or conquering died. Then also in thy roll of heroes write, For well they earned what best thou canst bestow, Who being girt and armèd for the fight, Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe. Far off they pined on fever-stricken coast, Or sank in sudden arms of painful death; And faces which their eyes desired the most, They saw not, as they drew their parting breath. Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand, Which shall from all the ages honour win; Upon the threshold of this work to stand, Arrested there, while others enter in. And this was theirs; they saw their fellows bound To fields of fame which they might never share; And all the while within their own hearts found A strength that was not less, to do and dare: