WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER READING THE SPEECH OF ROBERT EMMET,
ON HIS TRIAL AND CONVICTION FOR HIGH TREASON,
SEPTEMBER, 1803.
"LET no man write my epitaph; let my grave
Be uninscribed; and let my memory rest
Till other times are come, and other men,
Who then may do me justice.” *
Emmet, no!
No withering curse hath dried my spirit up,
That I should now be silent, that my soul
Should from the stirring inspiration shrink,
Now when it shakes her, and withhold her voice,
Of that divinest impulse never more
Worthy, if impious I withheld it now,
Hardening my heart. Here, here, in this free Isle,
To which in thy young virtue's erring zeal
Thou wert so perilous an enemy,
* These were the words in his speech: "Let there be no inscription upon my tomb; let no man write my epitaph: no man can write my epitaph. I am here ready to die. I am not allowed to vindicate my character; and, when I am prevented from vindicating myself, let no man dare to calumniate me. Let my character and my motives repose in obscurity and peace, till other times and other men can do them justice. Then shall my character be vindicated; then may my epitaph be written. I HAVE Done.'
Here in free England shall an English hand
Build thy imperishable monument;
Oh! to thine own misfortune and to ours,
By thine own deadly error so beguiled,
Here in free England shall an English voice
Raise up thy mourning-song. For thou hast paid
The bitter penalty of that misdeed;
Justice hath done her unrelenting part,
If she in truth be Justice who drives on,
Bloody and blind, the chariot wheels of Death.
So young, so glowing for the general good, Oh, what a lovely manhood had been thine, When all the violent workings of thy youth Had passed away, hadst thou been wisely spared, Left to the slow and certain influences
Of silent feeling and maturing thought!
How had that heart, that noble heart, of thine, Which even now had snapped one spell, which
With such brave indignation at the shame
And guilt of France, and of her miscreant lord,
How had it clung to England! With what love,
What pure and perfect love, returned to her,
Now worthy of thy love, the champion now
For freedom, yea, the only champion now,
And soon to be the avenger! But the blow
Hath fallen, the indiscriminating blow,
That for its portion to the grave consigned
Youth, Genius, generous Virtue. Oh, grief, grief!
Oh, sorrow and reproach! Have ye to learn,
Deaf to the past, and to the future blind,
Ye who thus irremissibly exact
The forfeit life, how lightly life is staked,
When in distempered times the feverish mind
To strong delusion yields? Have ye to learn
With what a deep and spirit-stirring voice
Pity doth call Revenge? Have ye no hearts
To feel and understand how Mercy tames
The rebel nature, maddened by old wrongs,
And binds it in the gentle bands of love,
When steel and adamant were weak to hold
That Samson-strength subdued?
Let no man write
Thy epitaph! Emmet, nay; thou shalt not go
Without thy funeral strain! O young and good
And wise, though erring here! thou shalt not go
Unhonored nor unsung. And better thus
Beneath that indiscriminating stroke,
Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn,
As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse,
Thine own disastrous triumph; to have seen,
If the Almighty at that awful hour
Had turned away his face, wild Ignorance
Let loose, and frantic Vengeance, and dark Zeal,
And all bad passions tyrannous, and the fires
Of Persecution once again ablaze.
How had it sunk into thy soul to see,
Last curse of all, the ruffian slaves of France
In thy dear native country lording it !
How happier thus, in that heroic mood
That takes away the sting of death, to die,
By all the good and all the wise forgiven;
Yea, in all ages by the wise and good
To be remembered, mourned, and honored still!
THANKSGIVING FOR VICTORY.
WRITTEN FOR MUSIC, AND COMPOSED BY SHIELD.
GLORY to thee in thine omnipotence,
O Lord! who art our shield and our defence,
And dost dispense,
As seemeth best to thine unerring will,
(Which passeth mortal sense,)
The lot of Victory still;
Edging sometimes with might the sword unjust,
And bowing to the dust
The rightful cause, that so such seeming ill
May thine appointed purposes fulfil;
Sometimes, as in this late auspicious hour
For which our hymns we raise,
Making the wicked feel thy present power;
Glory to thee, and praise,
Almighty God, by whom our strength was given !
Glory to thee, O Lord of earth and heaven!
WRITTEN IN LADY LONSDALE'S ALBUM, AT LOWTHER CASTLE,
SOMETIMES in youthful years,
When in some ancient ruin I. have stood,
Alone and musing, till with quiet tears
I felt my cheeks bedewed,
A melancholy thought hath made me grieve
For this our age, and humbled me in mind,
That it should pass away, and leave
No monuments behind.
Not for themselves alone
Our fathers lived; nor with a niggard hand
Raised they the fabrics of enduring stone,
Which yet adorn the land:
Their piles, memorials of the mighty dead,
Survive them still, majestic in decay;
But ours are like ourselves, I said,
The creatures of a day.
With other feelings now,
Lowther! have I beheld thy stately walls,
Thy pinnacles, and broad, embattled brow,
And hospitable halls.
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