Till inch by inch it widens into space,
Towers o'er the grove and suns itself-in Place.
But 'tis not only youth that dies too soon,
An eve may close regretted more than noon;
And England felt what light of temperate day
Faded from earth when PEEL had pass'd away.
"Soft," cries a friend, "o'er smould'ring fires you go;
Describe the Orator; the Statesman-no;
Suppress his deeds-enlarge on his discourse!"
A centaur, friend, is man as well as horse;
And paint a horse as ably as you can,
It is no centaur, if you add not man.
In Peel (and thus his main success was won)
Statesman and Orator were blent in one;
His genius, firm in each ascent it tries,
"Like Virgil's verse, walks highest, but not flies.”
Powers strong by nature, and by culture skill'd,
In few more various, were in none so drill'd;
Voice rare in volume and sonorous force,
Words free of flow as rivers in their course;
Manner, form, feature, such as well befit
The Hall whose elders yet remember'd Pitt ;
Scholastic lore, and taste refined and pure,—
With half these gifts much smaller men secure
The fame that crowns the Orator ;-take Shiel!
Less than the Orator and more was Peel-
Perhaps his fault was want of self-escape;
His cautious mind seem'd consciously to drape
Its formal toga round its decent shape;
Yet in such fault, if fault it be, there lay
The subtle secret of his wondrous sway;
Men view'd his temperance as the proof of health,
And want of show seem'd modesty in wealth.
Nor think his speech was merely prudent sense-
It had its own artistic eloquence;
Vigorous when brief, majestic when verbose,
In statement ample, and in answer close;
But so the speech was with the speaker blent,
That his own fame was its best ornament.
Turn to the Statesman, and in him behold
The man at once most timid and most bold;
At each new thought he paused, and feared, and trembled,
And while he doubted, to himself dissembled.
But when conviction was from doubt evolved,
It fill'd, it ruled him, and he stood resolved,
Prepared for ills the bravest dread to see,
As is the Turk for what the fates decree;
And both their courage and its causes sum
In the same formula-" The Hour is come."
The taunt which stings the honour to the core; The look which says, "False friend, we trust no more ;" The pangs of chiefs who 'mid their foes' applause Resign their standards and renounce their causeIn ills like these, more bitter than the grave, Show me a fatalist more calmly brave! Grandeur or vileness this ?-the test is plain; Condemn the apostate first make clear the gain. The convert canonise ?-first prove the loss, And show the martyr bowed beneath the cross. The test fails here each loss was re-supplied,
In every shift he went with wind and tide;
The same slow change the nation's mind had known,
And praised his wisdom to exalt its own.
But gain he could not or in power or fame-
That risk'd sincerely, this resign'd for blame;
And in that nature, so reserved and still,
No stern self-glory cheer'd the joyless will.
The blame that reach'd him was no random thrust-
From those who launch'd, his reason felt it just;
And the same conscience that had finely weigh'd
Each straw that turn'd the balance it obey'd,
Excused the shaft to which it lent the string,
And in excusing doubly felt the sting.
Is there no medium and for one who seems,
Wide tho' his space, so far from both extremes?
Must we an image so familiar paint,
Horn'd as a fiend, or halo'd as a saint?
Responsibility! that heaviest word
In all our language! the imperious lord
Of Duty, and to him who rules a State,
Strong in proportion as its slave is great;
RESPONSIBILITY-accept that clue,
And all the maze of motive clears to view.
Take some firm patriot who can boast with truth He ne'er has changed a dogma since his youth,
Make him First Minister, and bid him then
Deal-with dead doctrines ?-No, with living men!
Let Bright responsible for England be,
And straight in Bright a Chatham we should see,
Improving rifles, lecturing at reviews,
And levying taxes for reforms-in screws.
Make Spooner (no man is more free from guile)
The anxious Viceroy of the Emerald Isle ;
Would Spooner be a renegade from truth
If his first words were "money for Maynooth?"
On no man living as on Peel bestow'd
This solemn burthen, none more felt the load;
He had not party's, he had England's trust-
When firm, she call'd him cautious; yielding, just.
England has ever in her secret heart
Most favour'd chiefs, who somewhat stand apart
From those they lead: let brethren love each other,
But if too much, they may neglect their mother.
Pitt in his prime was not a party-man,
And Peel seem'd born to end as Pitt began.
The more his reasonings, in their watchful range, Seem'd guarding outlets for prudential change, The more scared followers groan'd, "Can we confide?" The more the Public hail'd the common guide.
It liked his wealth-the wealthy want not place ;
It liked his birth-trade has its pride of race;
It liked his sober yet imposing mien ;
It liked his life, in which no flaw was seen;
And thus to his, as a judicial mind,
The general cause the general trust consign'd;
From the vex'd Bar Opinion snatch'd its chief,
Wrench'd from his hands each client's partial brief,
And raised the counsel of a special plea
Into the judge, whose voice was a decree.
And, in return, his conscience more and more
Revised each cause it had sustain'd before,
Till all old questions merged afresh in one,
"Should, for the good of England, this be done?
If so, of all men I must do it!—why?
Because none else could so succeed as I!"
To me, who seek to analyse, not judge, Exempt alike from favour and from grudge
To me, so clearly, when with care defined,
Stands forth excused his conscience-weighted mind, That where I doubt his course, I dare not blame;
I too am English, and my share I claim
Of our joint heirloom in his English name.
But were the followers wrong if their belief
Clung to the cause deserted by its chief?
If loud their wrath, can honesty condemn ?
Candour, absolving him, excuses them;
And if-but peace to the old feuds !-the life
Of hate should be coeval with its strife;
In foreign fields our lavish blood is shed;
War ends, and vengeance sleeps beside the dead;
Are we more generous to barbaric foes
Than to our brethren ?-does the conflict close,
And the wrath rest, when England is the field,
And the dispute-the two sides of her shield?
Fast by the Hour a veilèd Future stands ; Distrust has loosed the girdle of the lands; Pale, but prepared, the Isle's lone spirit sees The waves that whiten, tho' yet mute the breeze, And shapes her trident to her anchor :-Call Her sons around, and let the tempest fall! Were He still living in whose name we find Pretexts to sever, how had he combined? How the vague fears that flit thro' common air Would sink confiding in his watchful care! How the witch Discord, muttering o'er his grave, Would fly before his standard !-All most brave In his mix'd nature seem'd to life to start When England's honour roused his English heart, And all most cautious in his English sense,
When England's safety needed sage defence.
Earth holds him not! what will his shade placate?
Hark, it replies, "the sacrifice of Hate."
Unite, unite, all ye whose interests lie
In wider lists than 'Printed Votes' supply-
Than the small issues of the glorious night,
When Noes to left outnumber Ayes to right,
And State departments see a change-of face,
And Noodle sits in what was Doodle's place.
Still in the Senate, whatsoe'er we lack,
It is not genius ;-call old giants back,
And men now living might as tall appear,
Judg'd by our sons, not us-we stand too near.
These I name not-their race is yet to run,
Huzza'd or hooted;-my calm task is done.
Ne'er of the living can the living judge-
Too blind the affection, or too fresh the grudge?
My aim was not the libel of the hour,
To snarl at Genius or beslaver Power.
To live is to contest: no angry breath
From this fierce world should pass the gates of Death.
True that our tenets may our judgments guide,
The calmest history has its partial side;
But still such preference robs not him of trust
Whose main design is clearly to be just.
As schools have form'd them, artists mix their hues,
But Art is truth whatever school it choose.
I turn'd one day in musing from the page,*
Where in long order pass from age to age
The shades of Rome's great Orators; their claims
On time there only archived; ev'n their names
To us but far-off sounds: yet charms it not
To learn what voices Rome too soon forgot?
And the thought sprung from which this verse has flow'd, On our own Dead be the same dues bestowed.
The author's monument his book; his stone
The sculptor's. But the orator whose tone
Raised up wall'd cities like Amphion's lute,
Stay'd the strong current, struck the wild winds mute,
Like bland Calliope's melodious son,
Leaves no memorial when his race is run.
As on the sands his mind impress'd a day,
As by the tides wash'd with the next away;
The works themselves, you cry, are not effaced,
By faithful Hansard talbotyped or traced.
But what the words themselves without the sound?
The reader yawns, the listener was spell-bound.
You close the book, you question those who heard,
Straight your eye kindles, and your pulse is stirr'd.
* CICERO, De Claribus Oratoribus (BRUTUS).
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