The statesman quail'd before his glance of ire!
Worn was his brow with cares no thought could scan,
His step was loftier than the steps of man;
And the winds told his glory, and the wave
Sonorous witness to his empire gave!
What forms are these, that with complaining sound,
And slow reluctant steps are gathering round?
Forms that with him shall tread life's changing stage,
Cross his lone path, or share his pilgrimage.
There, as he gazed, a wond'rous band—they came,
Pym's look of hate, and Strafford's glance of flame:
There Laud, with noiseless steps and glittering eye,
In priestly garb, a frail old man, went by;
His drooping head bowed meekly on his breast;
His hands were folded, like a saint at rest!
There Hampden bent him o'er his saddle bow,
And death's cold dews bedimm'd his earnest brow;
Still turn'd to watch the battle—still forgot
Himself, his sufferings, in his country's lot!
There Falkland eyed the strife that would not cease,
Shook back his tangled locks, and murmur'd "Peace!"
With feet that spurn'd the ground, lo! Milton there
Stood like a statue; and his face was fair—
Fair beyond human beauty; and his eye,
That knew not earth, soar'd upwards to the sky!
He, too, was there—it was the princely boy,
The child-companion of his childish joy!
But oh! how chang'd! those deathlike features wore
Childhood's bright glance and sunny smile no more!
That brow so sad, so pale, so full of care—
What trace of careless childhood linger'd there?
What spring of youth in that majestic mien,
