Miscellaneous Writings and Speeches - Volume 3 - Thomas Badington Macaulay (mobi reader txt) 📗

the Court and the Mammon of the Pope; There is woe in Oxford halls: there is wail in Durham's Stalls: The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

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SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD.

(1825.)

Let pious Damon take his seat, With mincing step and languid smile, And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, Sabaean odours o'er the aisle; And spread his little jewelled hand, And smile round all the parish beauties, And pat his curls, and smooth his band, Meet prelude to his saintly duties.

Let the thronged audience press and stare, Let stifled maidens ply the fan, Admire his doctrines, and his hair, And whisper, "What a good young man!" While he explains what seems most clear, So clearly that it seems perplexed, I'll stay and read my sermon here; And skulls, and bones, shall be the text.

Art thou the jilted dupe of fame? Dost thou with jealous anger pine Whene'er she sounds some other name, With fonder emphasis than thine? To thee I preach; draw near; attend! Look on these bones, thou fool, and see Where all her scorns and favours end, What Byron is, and thou must be.

Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf, or wandering feather? Behold the black, damp narrow pits, Where they and thou must lie together.

Dost thou beneath the smile or frown Of some vain woman bend thy knee? Here take thy stand, and trample down Things that were once as fair as she. Here rave of her ten thousand graces, Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin.

Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, Whate'er thy projects or thy fears, Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains, That prompt thy baby smiles and tears; Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, In one short hour of placid thought, A stoicism, more deep, more stern, Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught.

The plots and feats of those that press To seize on titles, wealth, or power, Shall seem to thee a game of chess, Devised to pass a tedious hour. What matters it to him who fights For shows of unsubstantial good, Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights, Be things of flesh, or things of wood?

We check, and take; exult, and fret; Our plans extend, our passions rise, Till in our ardour we forget How worthless is the victor's prize. Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night: Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game?

Dost thou among these hillocks stray, O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan? Know that thy foot is on the clay Of hearts once wretched as thy own. How many a father's anxious schemes, How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, How many a mother's cherished dreams, The swelling turf before thee covers!

Here for the living, and the dead, The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same cold bed, The same dark night, the same long sleep; Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave O'er those with whom thou soon must be? Death his own sting shall cure-the grave Shall vanquish its own victory.

Here learn that all the griefs and joys, Which now torment, which now beguile, Are children's hurts, and children's toys, Scarce worthy of one bitter smile. Here learn that pulpit, throne, and press, Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail, That science is a blind man's guess, And History a nurse's tale.

Here learn that glory and disgrace, Wisdom and folly, pass away, That mirth hath its appointed space, That sorrow is but for a day; That all we love, and all we hate, That all we hope, and all we fear, Each mood of mind, each turn of fate, Must end in dust and silence here.

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TRANSLATION FROM A.V. ARNAULT.

"Fables": Livre v. "Fable" 16.

(1826.)

Thou poor leaf, so sear and frail, Sport of every wanton gale, Whence, and whither, dost thou fly, Through this bleak autumnal sky? On a noble oak I grew, Green, and broad, and fair to view; But the Monarch of the shade By the tempest low was laid. From that time, I wander o'er Wood, and valley, hill, and moor, Wheresoe'er the wind is blowing, Nothing caring, nothing knowing: Thither go I, whither goes, Glory's laurel, Beauty's rose.

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-De ta tige detachee, Pauvre feuille dessechee Ou vas tu?-Je n'en sais rien. L'orage a frappe le chene Qui seul etait mon soutien. De son inconstante haleine, Le zephyr ou l'aquilon Depuis ce jour me promene De la foret a la plaine, De la montagne au vallon. Je vais ou le vent me mene, Sans me plaindre ou m'effrayer, Je vais ou va toute chose Ou va la feuille de rose Et la feuille de laurier.

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DIES IRAE.

(1826.)

On that great, that awful day, This vain world shall pass away. Thus the sibyl sang of old, Thus hath holy David told. There shall be a deadly fear When the Avenger shall appear, And unveiled before his eye All the works of man shall lie. Hark! to the great trumpet's tones Pealing o'er the place of bones: Hark! it waketh from their bed All the nations of the dead,- In a countless throng to meet, At the eternal judgment seat. Nature sickens with dismay, Death may not retain its prey; And before the Maker stand All the creatures of his hand. The great book shall be unfurled, Whereby God shall judge the world; What was distant shall be near, What was hidden shall be clear. To what shelter shall I fly? To what guardian shall I cry? Oh, in that destroying hour, Source of goodness, Source of power, Show thou, of thine own free grace, Help unto a helpless race. Though I plead not at thy throne Aught that I for thee have done, Do not thou unmindful be, Of what thou hast borne for me: Of the wandering, of the scorn, Of the scourge, and of the thorn. JESUS, hast THOU borne the pain, And hath all been borne in vain? Shall thy vengeance smite the head For whose ransom thou hast bled? Thou, whose dying blessing gave Glory to a guilty slave: Thou, who from the crew unclean Didst release the Magdalene: Shall not mercy vast and free, Evermore be found in thee? Father, turn on me thine eyes, See my blushes, hear my cries; Faint though be the cries I make, Save me for thy mercy's sake, From the worm, and from the fire, From the torments of thine ire. Fold me with the sheep that stand Pure and safe at thy right hand. Hear thy guilty child implore thee, Rolling in the dust before thee. Oh the horrors of that day! When this frame of sinful clay, Starting from its burial place, Must behold thee face to face. Hear and pity, hear and aid, Spare the creatures thou hast made. Mercy, mercy, save, forgive, Oh, who shall look on thee and live?

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THE MARRIAGE OF TIRZAH AND AHIRAD.

(1827.)

GENESIS VI. 3.

It is the dead of night: Yet more than noonday light Beams far and wide from many a gorgeous hall. Unnumbered harps are tinkling, Unnumbered lamps are twinkling, In the great city of the fourfold wall. By the brazen castle's moat, The sentry hums a livelier note. The ship-boy chaunts a shriller lay From the galleys in the bay. Shout, and laugh, and hurrying feet Sound from mart and square and street, From the breezy laurel shades, From the granite colonnades, From the golden statue's base, From the stately market-place, Where, upreared by captive hands, The great Tower of Triumph stands, All its pillars in a blaze With the many-coloured rays, Which lanthorns of ten thousand dyes Shed on ten thousand panoplies. But closest is the throng, And loudest is the song, In that sweet garden by the river side, The abyss of myrtle bowers, The wilderness of flowers, Where Cain hath built the palace of his pride. Such palace ne'er shall be again Among the dwindling race of men. From all its threescore gates the light Of gold and steel afar was thrown; Two hundred cubits rose in height The outer wall of polished stone. On the top was ample space For a gallant chariot race, Near either parapet a bed Of the richest mould was spread, Where amidst flowers of every scent and hue Rich orange trees, and palms, and giant cedars grew.

In the mansion's public court All is revel, song, and sport; For there, till morn shall tint the east, Menials and guards prolong the feast. The boards with painted vessels shine; The marble cisterns foam with wine. A hundred dancing girls are there With zoneless waists and streaming hair; And countless eyes with ardour gaze, And countless hands the measure beat, As mix and part in amorous maze Those floating arms and bounding feet. But none of all the race of Cain, Save those whom he hath deigned to grace With yellow robe and sapphire chain, May pass beyond that outer space. For now within the painted hall The Firstborn keeps high festival. Before the glittering valves all night Their post the chosen captains hold. Above the portal's stately height The legend flames in lamps of gold: "In life united and in death "May Tirzah and Ahirad be, "The bravest he of all the sons of Seth, "Of all the house of Cain the loveliest she."

Through all the climates of the earth This night is given to festal mirth. The long continued war is ended. The long divided lines are blended. Ahirad's bow shall now no more Make fat the wolves with kindred gore. The vultures shall expect in vain Their banquet from the sword of Cain. Without a guard the herds and flocks Along the frontier moors and rocks From eve to morn may roam: Nor shriek, nor shout, nor reddened sky, Shall warn the startled hind to fly From his beloved home. Nor to the pier shall burghers crowd With straining necks and faces pale, And think that in each flitting cloud They see a hostile sail. The peasant without fear shall guide Down smooth canal or river wide His painted bark of cane, Fraught, for some proud bazaar's arcades, With chestnuts from his native shades, And wine, and milk, and grain. Search round the peopled globe to-night, Explore each continent and isle, There is no door without a light, No face without a smile. The noblest chiefs of either race, From north and south, from west and east, Crowd to the painted hall to grace The pomp of that atoning feast. With widening eyes and labouring breath Stand the fair-haired sons of Seth, As bursts upon their dazzled sight The endless avenue of light, The bowers of tulip, rose, and palm, The thousand cressets fed with balm, The silken vests, the boards piled high With amber, gold, and ivory, The crystal founts whence sparkling flow The richest wines o'er beds of snow, The walls where blaze in living dyes The king's three hundred victories. The heralds point the fitting seat To every guest