Let not vain youth deride the age that still Loves as the young,--loves on unto the last; Grandest the heart when grander than the will-- Bow we before the soul, which through the Past, Turns no vain glance towards fading heights of Pride, But strains its humbled tearful gaze to see, Love and Remorse--near Immortality, And by the yawning Grave, stand side by side. The Parcae.--Leaf the Sixth. CROMWELL'S DREAM. The conception of this Ode originated in a popular tradition of Cromwell's earlier days. It is thus strikingly related by Mr. Forster, in his very valuable Life of Cromwell:--"He laid himself down, too fatigued in hope for sleep, when suddenly the curtains of his bed were slowly withdrawn by a gigantic figure, which bore the aspect of a woman, and which, gazing at him silently for a while, told him that he should, before his death, be the greatest man in England. He remembered when he told the story, and the recollection marked the current of his thoughts, _that the figure had not made mention of the word King_." Alteration has been made in the scene of the vision, and the age of Cromwell. I. The Moor spread wild and far, In the sharp whiteness of a wintry shroud; Midnight yet moonless; and the winds ice-bound: And a grey dusk--not darkness--reign'd around, Save where the phantom of a sudden star Peer'd o'er some haggard precipice of cloud:-- Where on the wold, the triple pathway cross'd, A sturdy wanderer wearied, lone, and lost, Paused and gazed round; a dwarf'd but aged yew O'er the wan rime its gnome-like shadow threw; The spot invited, and by sleep oppress'd, Beneath the boughs he laid him down to rest. A man of stalwart limbs and hardy frame, Meet for the ruder time when force was fame, Youthful in years--the features yet betray Thoughts rarely mellow'd till the locks are grey: Round the firm lips the lines of solemn wile Might warn the wise of danger in the smile; But the blunt aspect spoke more sternly still That craft of craft--THE STUBBORN WILL: That which,--let what may betide-- Never halts nor swerves aside; From afar its victim viewing, Slow of speed, but sure-pursuing; Through maze, up mount, still hounding on its way, Till grimly couch'd beside the conquer'd prey! II. The loftiest fate will longest lie In unrevealing sleep; And yet unknown the destined race, Nor yet his Soul had walk'd with Grace; Still, on the seas of Time Drifted the ever-careless prime,-- But many a blast that o'er the sky All idly seems to sweep,-- Still while it speeds, may spread the seeds The toils of autumn reap:-- And we must blame the soil, and not the wind, If hurrying passion leave no golden grain behind. III.