ODE

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF Derby, and rECITED IN THE SheldoNIAN THEATRE, Oxford, AT HIS INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY, JUNE 1, 1853.

I HAD been thinking of the antique masque
Before high peers and peeresses at Court,
Of the strong gracefulness of Milton's task,
"Rare Ben's" gigantic sport—

Those delicate creations, full of strange
And perilous stuff, wherein the silver flood
And crowned city suffer'd human change
Like things of flesh and blood.

And I was longing for a hand like those
Somewhere in bower of learning's fine retreat,
That it might fling immortally one rose,
At Stanley's honour'd feet.

*

Fair as that woman whom the Prophet old
In Ardath met, lamenting for her dead,
With sackcloth cast above the tiar of gold,
And ashes on her head.

* 2 Esdras ix. 38.

Methought I met a lady yester-even ;

A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail, Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam'd to Heaven, White as a moonlit sail.

She spake." On this pale brow are looks of youth, Yet angels, listening on the argent floor,

Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth Nine hundred years and more.

"And Isis knows what time-grey towers rear'd up, Gardens and groves and cloister'd halls are mine, Where quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup Draughts of ambrosial wine.

"He knows how night by night my lamps are lit,
How day by day my bells are ringing clear,
Mother of ancient lore, and Attic wit,
And discipline severe.

"It may be long ago my dizzied brain,

Enchanted swam beneath Rome's master spell, Till like light tinctured by the painted pane Thought in her colours fell.

"Yet when the great old tongue with strong effect Woke from its sepulchre across the sea,

The subtler spell of Grecian intellect

Work'd mightily in me.

"Time pass'd—my groves were full of warlike stirs ; The student's heart was with the merry spears,

Or keeping measure to the clanking spurs

Of Rupert's Cavaliers.

"All those long ages, like a holy mother,
I rear'd my children to a lore sublime,
Picking up fairer shells than any other
Along the shores of Time.

"And must I speak at last of sensual sleep,
The dull forgetfulness of aimless years?
Oh, let me turn away my head, and weep
Than Rachel's bitterer tears—

"Tears for the passionate hearts I might have won,
Tears for the age with which I might have striven,
Tears for a hundred years of work undone,
Crying like blood to Heaven.

"I have repented-and my glorious name

Stands scutcheon'd round with blazonry more bright.

The wither'd rod, the emblem of my shame,
Bloom'd blossoms in a night.

"And I have led my children on steep mountains,
By fine attraction of my spirit brought

Up to the dark inexplicable fountains
That are the springs of thought,-

"Led them, where on the old poetic shore

The flowers that change not with the changing moon Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the sycamore About the bees in June.

"And I will bear them, as on eagle wings,

To leave them bow'd before the sapphire throne, High o'er the haunts where dying pleasure sings With sweet and swanlike tone.

"And I will lead the ages great expansions,

Progressive circles toward thought's Sabbath rest, And point beyond them to the many mansions Where Christ is with the blest.

"Am I not pledged who gave my bridal ring
To that old man heroic, strong, and true,
Whose grey-hair'd virtue was a nobler thing
Than even Waterloo?

"Surely that spousal morn my chosen ones
Felt their hearts moving to mysterious calls,
And the old pictures of my sainted sons
Look'd brighter from the walls.

"He sleeps at last-no wind's tempestuous breath
Play'd a dead march upon the moaning billow,
What time God's angel visited with death
The old Field Marshal's pillow.

"There was no omen of a great disaster

Where castled Walmer stands beside the shore; The evening clouds, like pillar'd alabaster, Hung huge and silent o'er.

"The moon in brightness walk'd the fleecy rack, Walk'd up and down among the starry fires; Heaven's great cathedral was not hung with black Up to its topmost spires.

"But mine own Isis kept a solemn chiming,

A silver requiescat all night long,

And mine old trees with all their leaves were timing

The sorrow of the song.