Epitaph on Henry Martyn

HERE Martyn lies. In Manhood's early bloom

The Christian Hero finds a Pagan tomb.

Religion, sorrowing o'er her favourite son,

Points to the glorious trophies that he won.

Eternal trophies! not with carnage red,

Not stained with tears by hapless captives shed,

But trophies of the Cross! for that dear name,

Through every form of danger, death, and shame,

Onward he journeyed to a happier shore,

Where danger, death, and shame assault no more.

Thomas Babbington Macaulay

Lines to the Memory of Pitt

OH Britain! dear Isle, when the annals of story

Shall tell of the deeds that thy children have done,

When the strains of each poet shall sing of their glory,

And the triumphs their skill and their valour have won.

When the olive and palm in thy chaplet are blended,

When thy arts, and thy fame, and thy commerce increase,

When thy arms through the uttermost coasts are extended,

And thy war is triumphant, and happy thy peace;

When the ocean, whose waves like a rampart flow round thee,

Conveying thy mandates to every shore,

And the empire of nature no longer can bound thee,

And the world be the scene of thy conquests no more:

Remember the man who in sorrow and danger,

When thy glory was set, and thy spirit was low,

When thy hopes were o'erturned by the arms of the stranger,

And thy banners displayed in the halls of the foe,

Stood forth in the tempest of doubt and disaster,

Unaided, and single, the danger to brave.

Asserted thy claims, and the rights of his master,

Preserved thee to conquer, and saved thee to save.

Thomas Babbington Macaulay

A Radical War Song

AWAKE, arise, the hour is come,

For rows and revolutions;

There's no receipt like pike and drum

For crazy constitutions.

Close, close the shop! Break, break the loom,

Desert your hearths and furrows,

And throng in arms to seal the doom

Of England's rotten boroughs.

We'll stretch that tort'ring Castlereagh

On his own Dublin rack, sir;

We'll drown the King in Eau de vie,

The Laureate in his sack, sir,

Old Eldon and his sordid hag

In molten gold we'll smother,

And stifle in his own green bag

The Doctor and his brother.

In chains we'll hang in fair Guildhall

The City's famed recorder,

And next on proud St Stephen's fall,

Though Wynne should squeak to order.

In vain our tyrants then shall try

To 'scape our martial law, sir;

In vain the trembling Speaker cry

That "Strangers must withdraw," sir.

Copley to hang offends no text;

A rat is not a man, sir:

With schedules, and with tax bills next

We'll bury pious Van, sir.

The slaves who loved the income Tax,

We'll crush by scores, like mites, sir,

And him, the wretch who freed the blacks,

And more enslaved the whites, sir.

The peer shall dangle from his gate,

The bishop from his steeple,

Till all recanting, own, the State

Means nothing but the People.

We'll fix the church's revenues

On Apostolic basis,

One coat, one scrip, one pair of shoes

Shall pay their strange grimaces.

We'll strap the bar's deluding train

In their own darling halter,

And with his big church bible brain

The parson at the altar.

Hail glorious hour, when fair Reform

Shall bless our longing nation,

And Hunt receive commands to form

A new administration.

Carlisle shall sit enthroned, where sat

Our Cranmer and our Secker;

And Watson show his snow-white hat

In England's rich Exchequer.

The breast of Thistlewood shall wear

Our Wellesley's star and sash, man:

And many a mausoleum fair

Shall rise to honest Cashman.

Then, then beneath the nine-tailed cat

Shall they who used it writhe, sir;

And curates lean, and rectors fat,

Shall dig the ground they tithe, sir.

Down with your Bayleys, and your Bests,

Your Giffords, and your Gurneys:

We'll clear the island of the pests,

Which mortals name attorneys.

Down with your sheriffs, and your mayors,

Your registrars, and proctors,

We'll live without the lawyer's cares,

And die without the doctor's.

No discontented fair shall pout

To see her spouse so stupid;

We'll tread the torch of Hymen out,

And live content with Cupid.

Then, when the high-born and the great

Are humbled to our level,

On all the wealth of Church and State,

Like aldermen, we'll revel.

We'll live when hushed the battle's din,

In smoking and in cards, sir,

In drinking unexcised gin,

And wooing fair Poissardes, sir.

Thomas Babbington Macaulay

The Battle of Moncontour

OH, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour,

When the children of darkness and evil had power,

When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod

On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.

Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain,

Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain;

Oh, weep for the living, who linger to bear

The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair.

One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers,

To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers,

To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,

Where we fondly had deemed that our own would be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,

To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome,

To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,

To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,

To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids,

To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,

And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.

Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave

May rule in the halls of the free and the brave.

Our hearths we abandon; our lands we resign;

But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.

Thomas Babbington Macaulay

Sermon in a Churchyard

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.

Thomas Babbington Macaulay

Dies Irae

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?

Thomas Babbington Macaulay

The Country Clergyman's Trip to Cambridge -- An Election Ballad

As I sate down to breakfast in state,

At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring,

With Betty beside me to wait,

Came a rap that almost beat the door in.

I laid down my basin of tea,

And Betty ceased spreading the toast,

"As sure as a gun, sir," said she,

"That must be the knock of the post."

A letter--and free--bring it here--

I have no correspondent who franks.

No! Yes! Can it be? Why, my dear,

'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes.

"Dear sir, as I know you desire

That the Church should receive due protection,

I humbly presume to require

Your aid at the Cambridge election.

"It has lately been brought to my knowledge,

That the Ministers fully design

To suppress each cathedral and college,

And eject every learned divine.

To assist this detestable scheme

Three nuncios from Rome are come over;

They left Calais on Monday by steam,

And landed to dinner at Dover.

"An army of grim Cordeliers,

Well furnished with relics and vermin,

Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears,

To effect what their chiefs may determine.

Lollard's bower, good authorities say,

Is again fitting up for a prison;

And a wood-merchant told me to-day

'Tis a wonder how faggots have risen.

"The finance scheme of Canning contains

A new Easter-offering tax;

And he means to devote all the gains

To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks.

Your living, so neat and compact--

Pray, don't let the news give you pain!--

Is promised, I know for a fact,

To an olive-faced Padre from Spain."

I read, and I felt my heart bleed,

Sore wounded with horror and pity;

So I flew, with all possible speed,

To our Protestant champion's committee.

True gentlemen, kind and well-bred!

No fleering! no distance! no scorn!

They asked after my wife who is dead,

And my children who never were born.

They then, like high-principled Tories,

Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady,

And assailed him with scandalous stories,

Till the coach for the voters was ready.

That coach might be well called a casket

Of learning and brotherly love:

There were parsons in boot and in basket;

There were parsons below and above.

There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair

Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches;

A smug chaplain of plausible air,

Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches.

Dr Buzz, who alone is a host,

Who, with arguments weighty as lead,

Proves six times a week in the Post

That flesh somehow differs from bread.

Dr Nimrod, whose orthodox toes

Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup;

Dr Humdrum, whose eloquence flows,

Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup;

Dr Rosygill puffing and fanning,

And wiping away perspiration;

Dr Humbug who proved Mr Canning

The beast in St John's Revelation.

A layman can scarce form a notion

Of our wonderful talk on the road;

Of the learning, the wit, and devotion,

Which almost each syllable showed:

Why divided allegiance agrees

So ill with our free constitution;

How Catholics swear as they please,

In hope of the priest's absolution;

How the Bishop of Norwich had bartered

His faith for a legate's commission;

How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyr'd,

Had stooped to a base coalition;

How Papists are cased from compassion

By bigotry, stronger than steel;

How burning would soon come in fashion,

And how very bad it must feel.

We were all so much touched and excited

By a subject so direly sublime,

That the rules of politeness were slighted,

And we all of us talked at a time;

And in tones, which each moment grew louder,

Told how we should dress for the show,

And where we should fasten the powder,

And if we should bellow or no.

Thus from subject to subject we ran,

And the journey passed pleasantly o'er,

Till at last Dr Humdrum began;

From that time I remember no more.

At Ware he commenced his prelection,

In the dullest of clerical drones;

And when next I regained recollection

We were rambling o'er Trumpington stones.

Thomas Babbington Macaulay