Thine own strong hand hath grasp'd the laurel bough,
Shall others twine the olive for thee now?
No Roman pageant claims thee as its part,
Thine is the bloodless triumph of the heart.
Thou need'st no venal eye thy spoils to scan,
No hireling lip to whisper, " Thou art Man a."
Thine is a praise not heard-but felt afar,
Like the still song of some earth-worshipp'd star:
Thine is the deathless hymn of onward time;
Thine is a mingled wreath from many a clime.
There, like a sister, Gallia's lily glows
In holy union with the Island rose ;
And, cloth'd in beauty, India's lotos blue,
Flings o'er each drooping flower its treasur'd dew:
There, trampled oft, but strong to bloom again,
Lives the torn branch of liberated Spain;
And Lusitania's laurel, snatch'd before
Its wonted green was dyed in kindred gore.-
Such was thy chaplet-but a brighter now
Leaves the cold helm to live upon thy brow;
a Alluding to the slave who sate behind the Roman conqueror in his triumphal car, to remind him that, amid his glory, he was
With greener leaf, and brighter flowers than they,
Though sought in danger, found amid the fray:
A wreath unstain'd by blood, undimm'd by tears,
Snatch'd not from death, unwithering with years.
A civic crown for him, who, doubly brave,
Rush'd on to slay-then turn'd again to save;
Who, in the senate, firm as in the field,
Alike in both unpractis'd how to yield,
First quell'd the foe-and, when the fight was done,
Upheld that freedom which his sword had won.
Well hast thou woo'd, like Pericles of old,
Love from the wise, and honour from the bold.-
Deep hast thou stamp'd in mem'ry's viewless page
The warrior's strength, the wisdom of the sage:
And now once more in Learning's sacred fane
Isis beholds another Warrior reign.
Where iron Cromwell, erst with zealot sway,
Snatch'd her torn wreath, her sceptre rent away,
A nobler guest, a spirit mightier yet,
Sunlike repairs the splendour that has set;
And flings far o'er thy stream its orient ray,
Bright with the cloudless promise of the day.
Long be that day! and still may
Her Guide, her Champion, Warrior! in thee.
Long may her sons, from Learning's classic grove,
Around thee throng to honour-and to love.
The helm may rust, the laurel bough may fade,
Oblivion's grasp may blunt the Victor's blade,
But that bright, holy wreath which Learning gives,
Untorn by hate, unharm'd by envy, lives—
Lives through the march of Tempest and of Time,
Dwells on each shore, and blooms in every clime:
Wide as the space that fills yon airless blue,
Pure as the breeze, and as eternal too,
Fair as the night-star's eve-awaken'd ray,
But with no morn to chase its fires away.
'Tis thine! 'tis thine! behold, far-flashing now, Its guardian flame burns brightly o'er thy browThat Vestal flame which Learning loves to shed O'er th' undying memory of the dead, Anticipates the tomb, and poureth free Its living lustre, WELLINGTON, for thee!
presented to the Examiners; but
it was not thought expedient to recite Hebrew in
|
