POETRY.
THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN.
[W. E. GLADSTONE.—MARCH, 1/330.]
CLEARER than the note of trumpet, pealing to the Islands forth, Borne upon the ringing echoes of the strong and steadfast North— To the folly of the foolish, to the blindness of the blind, Crushing down with voice of manhood half the childhood of Mankind,—
Thou hast spoken well and bravely, tho' the threescore years and ten, Which of old the royal Psalmist shadowed to the strength of men, Have, in true, God-fearing courage o'er thy life of purpose sped, And have left their mark, as ever, on the loved and honoured head.
If thy strength be toil and sorrow, Prince to us, we turn to thee : Feed our strength from out thy weakness,—joy for us such sorrow be I Chief of all we hold the dearest—looking ever as of yore To the Pole-star set to guide us in the Heaven for evermore- Fearless of the cry of faction, though the people's puzzled will For a time be swayed against thee, steady for the people still— Careless of a Court's disfavour, smiling such disfavour down, Jealous more than fawning courtiers for the honour of the
Crown--
Speed thee in the course thou steerest, speed thee He thou servs't so well; Men may think the servant stumbles ; such a servant never fell. Whence, but from a source eternal,—whence, but from a power divine, Ever yet has time-worn statesman gathered such a strength as thine ?
Rivals yet in word may spurn thee,--ay, and to their latest hour Fate may still in seeming grace them with the mockery of Power : And, if so the will has willed it, standing as He willed to stand, With the universal framework in the hollow of His hand, Thou the first to feel and own it, thou the first to bend and bow ; Thou hast done thy best and manliest, not a rood hest yielded th on.
Therefore, when old Time surrenders his imperial diadem, And upon the grave of Story writes its final requiem ; When the glistering sands of Statecraft perish in the whelming tide, Temples reared to Wrong and Falsehood fall to ruin side by side ; When the idol Self is tumbled from that pedestal of hers, Laughing-stock of men and angels, with her startled wor- shippers ; When the mists of Doubt are scattered in the sudden Sun of Truth, And the wearied face of Honour puts on an immortal youth ; Where the laurel waits the patient, where the prize is for the sure,
Where the conscious Rest eternal waits the vexed ones who endure,— Thou at least—or Faiths are fables, and the truth of truths a lie—
Hest thy welcome waiting for thee where the welcomes shall
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