THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 2266, 22 June 1880, Page 2

THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN.

[W. E. G-lahstoxe—Maecii, 18S0.]

The following beautiful lines arc taken from the “ London Spectator ” of March 17:—

Clearer than the note of trumpet, pealing to the Islands forth, Borne upon the ringing echoes of the

strong and steadfast north — To (he folly of the foolish, to the blindness of the blind, Crushing down with voice of manhood half the childhood of mankind—

Then has spoken well and bravely, tho’ the threescore years and ten, Which of old the Boyal Psalmist shadowed to the strength of men,

Have, in true, God- fearing courage o’er thy life of purpose sped, And have left their mark, as over, on the loved and honored,head. If thy strength be toil and sorrow, Prince to us, we turn to thee ; Feed our strength from out thy weakness—joy for us such sorrow be ! Chief of all we hold the dearest—looking ever as of yore To the Pole-star set to guide us in the Heaven for evermore— Fearless of the cry of faction, though the people’s puzzled will For a time be stayed against thee, steady for the people still— Careless of a Court’s disfavor, smiling such disfavor down, Jealous more than fawning courtiers for the honor of the Crown— Speed thee in the course thou steerest, speed thee He thou serv’st so well ; Men may think the servant stumbles—such a servant never fell. Whence but from a source eternal—whence but from a power divine, Ever yet has time-worn statesman gathered such a strength as thine ? Bivals yet in word may spurn thee—aye, and to their latest hour Fate may still in seeming grace them with the mockery of power. And, if so the will has willed it, standing as he willed to stand, With the universal framework in the hollow of his hand. Thou the first to feci and own it, thou the first to bend and bow ; Thou has done thy best and manliest, not a rood hast, yielded thou. Therefore, when old Time surrenders his imperial diadem, And upon the grave of Story writes its final requiem ; When the glistering sands of Statecraft perish in the whelming tide. Temples reared to Wrong and Falsehood fall to ruin side by side ; When tlic idol Self is tumbled from that pedestal of hers, Laughing-stock of men and angels, with her startled worshippers ; When the mists of Doubt arc scattered in the sudden sun of Truth, And the wearied face of Honor puts on an immortal youth ; Where the laurel waits the patient, where the prize is for the sure, Where the conscious Lest eternal waits the vexed ones who endure— Thou, at least—or Faiths are fables, and the truth of truths a lie— Has thy welcome waiting for the where the welcomes shall not die. H. M.