And hath he not whereof he needs must sing?
And hath he not whereof he well may boast?—
He from whose kin so many a one did spring
To shape the mighty rocks that guard the coast
Of History 'gainst Time, lest all be lost;
And chiefly those who stamped the speaking page,
Who bore the standard of Achievement's host
In Fame's tenth legion, from the earliest age
Till stately Vergil wrote, till Chelsea's Vulcan sage.
Judea's royal, world-renowned bard
Was once a shepherd. How must Bethlehem's hills
Have leaped and grown more lovely as they heard;
Till raging monsters, music-charmed, he kills.
And saves his flock, or with his harping stills
More dire destroyers in his monarch's breast!
And whence did Job arise, that prince whose ills,—
Lost, flocks, lands, family, all that he possessed,—
Wrung the immoral song his virtue to attest?
Let him be proud in later days to roam
In Warwick vales by virtuous Avon's shore,
Through fields of Ayr, around the humble home
Of him, the Cincinnatus of song, or o'er
Ettrick and Tweeddale in their days of yore,
Or with the Seasons' bard on Cheviot green,
With young Chile Harold laugh o'er Loch na Garr,
The Solitary trace through Cumbrian scene,
Or weep on Sussex downs with him of gentle mien.