The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 30

He sees himself within your shrine O hero G.o.ds of Fame!

And hears the praise that makes divine The human holy name.

True to the hearts of men shall chime The song their lips repeat; When heroes chant the strain, sublime; When lovers breathe it, sweet.

Lo, from the brief delusion given, He starts, as through the bars Gleams wan the dawn that scares from Heaven And Thought alike--its stars.

Hark to the busy tramp below!

The jar of iron doors!

The gaoler's heavy footfall slow Along the funeral floors!

The murmur of the crowd that round The human shambles throng; That m.u.f.fled sullen thunder-sound-- The Death-cart grates along!

"Alas, so soon!--and must I die,"

He groan'd forth unresign'd; "Flit like a cloud athwart the sky, And leave no wrack behind!

"And yet my Genius speaks to me; The Pythian fires my brain; And tells me what my life should be; A Prophet--and in vain!

"O realm more wide, from clime to clime, Than ever Caesar sway'd; O conquests in that world of time My grand desire survey'd!"--

Blood-red upon his loathing eyes Now glares the gaoler's torch: "Come forth, the day is in the skies, The Death-cart at the porch!"

Pa.s.s on!--to thee the Parcae give The fairest lot of all;-- In golden poet-dreams to live, And ere they fade--to fall!

The shrine that longest guards a Name Is oft an early tomb; The Poem most secure of fame Is--some wrong'd poet's doom!

The Parcae.--Leaf the Fourth.

MARY STUART AND HER MOURNER.

"Mary Stuart perished at the age of forty-four years and two months. Her remains were taken from her weeping servants, and a green cloth, torn in haste from an old billiard table, was flung over her once beautiful form. Thus it remained unwatched and unattended, except by a poor little lap-dog, which could not be induced to quit the body of its mistress.

This faithful little animal was found dead two days afterwards; and the circ.u.mstance made such an impression even on the hard-hearted minister of Elizabeth, that it was mentioned in the official despatches."

MRS. JAMIESON'S _Female Sovereigns--Mary Queen of Scots_.

The axe its b.l.o.o.d.y work had done; The corpse neglected lay; This peopled world could spare not one To watch beside the clay.

The fairest work from Nature's hand That e'er on mortals shone, A sunbeam stray'd from fairy land To fade upon a throne;--

The Venus of the Tomb[D] whose form Was destiny and death; The Siren's voice that stirr'd a storm In each melodious breath;--

Such _was_, what now by fate is hurl'd To rot, unwept, away.

A star has vanish'd from the world; And none to miss the ray!

Stern Knox, that loneliness forlorn A harsher truth might teach To royal pomps, than priestly scorn To royal sins can preach!

No victims now that lip can make!

That hand how powerless now!

O G.o.d! and what a King--but take A bauble from the brow?

The world is full of life and love; The world methinks might spare From millions, one to watch above The dust of monarchs there.

And not one human eye!--yet lo What stirs the funeral pall?

What sound--it is not human woe-- Wails moaning through the hall?

Close by the form mankind desert One thing a vigil keeps; More near and near to that still heart It wistful, wondering creeps.

It gazes on those glazed eyes, It hearkens for a breath-- It does not know that kindness dies, And love departs from death.

It fawns as fondly as before Upon that icy hand.

And hears from lips, that speak no more, The voice that can command.

To that poor fool, alone on earth, No matter what had been The pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth, The Dead was still a Queen.

With eyes that horror could not scare, It watch'd the senseless clay:-- Crouch'd on the breast of Death, and there Moan'd its fond life away.

And when the bolts discordant clash'd, And human steps drew nigh, The human pity shrunk abash'd Before that faithful eye;

It seem'd to gaze with such rebuke On those who could forsake; Then turn'd to watch once more the look, And strive the sleep to wake.

They raised the pall--they touch'd the dead, A cry, and _both_ were still'd,-- Alike the soul that Hate had sped, The life that Love had kill'd.

Semiramis of England, hail!

Thy crime secures thy sway: But when thine eyes shall scan the tale Those hireling scribes convey;

When thou shalt read, with late remorse, How one poor slave was found Beside thy butcher'd rival's corse, The headless and discrown'd;

Shall not thy soul foretell thine own Unloved, expiring hour, When those who kneel around the throne Shall fly the falling tower;

When thy great heart shall silent break, When thy sad eyes shall strain Through vacant s.p.a.ce, one thing to seek One thing that loved--in vain?

Though round thy parting pangs of pride Shall priest and n.o.ble crowd; More worth the grief, that mourn'd beside Thy victim's gory shroud!

The Parcae.--Leaf the Fifth.

THE LAST DAYS OF ELIZABETH.

"Her delight is to sit in the dark, and sometimes, with shedding tears, to bewail Ess.e.x."--_Contemporaneous Correspondence._

"She refused all consolation; few words she uttered, and they were all expressive of some hidden grief which she cared not to reveal. But sighs and groans were the chief vent which she gave to her despondency, and which, though they discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease or a.s.suage them. Ten days and nights she lay upon the carpet leaning on cus.h.i.+ons which her maids brought her," &c.--HUME.

I.

Rise from thy b.l.o.o.d.y grave, Thou soft Medusa of the Fated Line[F]