THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIM

SELF.

In humble dwelling born, retired, remote;
In rural quietude, 'mong hills, and streams,
And melancholy deserts, where the sun
Saw, as he pass'd, a shepherd only, here
And there, watching his little flock, or heard
The ploughman talking to his steers; his hopes,
His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling,
Among the dews and holy mountain airs;
And fancy colour'd them with every hue
Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams
Of childhood fled away, those rainbow dreams,
So innocent and fair, that wither'd age,
Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye,
And passing all between, look'd fondly back
To see them once again, ere he departed:
These fled away, and anxious thought, that wish'd
To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
Possess'd his soul, and held it still awhile.
He listen'd, and heard from far the voice of fame,
Heard and was charm'd; and deep and sudden vow
Of resolution made to be renown'd;
And deeper vow'd again to keep his vow.
His parents saw, his parents whom God made
Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope.
The ancient page he turn'd, read much, thought
much,

And with old bards of honourable name
Measured his soul severely; and look'd up
To fame, ambitious of no second place.
Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair.
And out before him open'd many a path
Ascending, where the laurel highest waved
Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring;
But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized,
The harp he loved, loved better than his life,
The harp which utter'd deepest notes, and held
The ear of thought a captive to its song.
He search'd and meditated much, and whiles,
With rapturous hand, in secret touch'd the lyre,
Aiming at glorious strains; and search'd again
For theme deserving of immortal verse;
Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied;
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still.

Thus stood his mind, when round him came a
cloud,

Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud

Of ills we mention not: enough to say,
"Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom.
He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes,
One after one, put out, as nearer still
It drew his soul; but fainted not at first,
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst;
Endure whate'er should come, without a sigh
Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs,
The bitterest cup that time could measure out;
And, having done, look up, and ask for more.
He call'd philosophy, and with his heart
Reason'd. He call'd religion, too, but call'd
Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard.
Ashamed to be o'ermatch'd by earthly woes,
He sought, and sought with eye that dimm'd apace,

To find some avenue to light, some place
On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain.
Darker and darker still the darkness grew.
At length he sunk, and disappointment stood
His only comforter, and mournfully
Told all was past. His interest in life,
In being, ceased: and now he seem'd to feel,
And shudder'd as he felt, his powers of mind
Decaying in the spring-time of his day.
The vigorous, weak became; the clear, obscure;
Memory gave up her charge; Decision reel'd;
And from her flight, Fancy return'd, return'd
Because she found no nourishment abroad.
The blue heavens wither'd, and the moon, and sun,
And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn
And evening, wither'd; and the eyes, and smiles,
And faces of all men and women, wither'd,
Wither'd to him; and all the universe,
Like something which had been, appear'd, but now
Was dead and mouldering fast away.
He tried
No more to hope, wish'd to forget his vow,
Wish'd to forget his harp; then ceased to wish
That was his last: enjoyment now was done.
He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear.
Of being sensible, and sensible

Of loss, he as some atom seem'd, which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not
To build creation with; but back again
To nothing threw, and left it in the void,
With everlasting sense that once it was.

Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent,
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless wo!
And who can tell how many, glorious once,
To others and themselves of promise full,
Conducted to this pass of human thought,
This wilderness of intellectual death,
Wasted and pined, and vanish'd from the earth,
Leaving no vestige of memorial there!

It was not so with him. When thus he lay,
Forlorn of heart, wither'd and desolate,
As leaf of autumn, which the wolfish winds,
Selecting from its falling sisters, chase,
Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes,
And leave it there alone, to be forgotten
Eternally, God pass'd in mercy by-

His praise be ever new!-and on him breathed,
And bade him live, and put into his hands
A holy harp, into his lips a song,

That roll'd its numbers down the tide of time:

Ambitious now, but little to be praised

Of men alone; ambitious most, to be
Approved of God, the Judge of all; and have
His name recorded in the book of life.

Such things were disappointment and remorse;
And oft united both, as friends severe,
To teach men wisdom; but the fool, untaught,
Was foolish still. His ear he stopp'd, his eyes
He shut, and blindly, deafly obstinate,
Forced desperately his way from wo to wo.

One place, one only place, there was on earth, Where no man e'er was fool, however mad. "Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die." Ah! 'twas a truth most true; and sung in time, And to the sons of men, by one well known On earth for lofty verse and lofty sense.

REPUTATION.

Good name was dear to all. Without it, none
Could soundly sleep, even on a royal bed,
Or drink with relish from a cup of gold;
And with it, on his borrow'd straw, or by
The leafless hedge, beneath the open heavens,
The weary beggar took untroubled rest.
It was a music of most heavenly tone,
To which the heart leap'd joyfully, and all
The spirits danced. For honest fame, men laid
Their heads upon the block, and, while the axe
Descended, look'd and smiled. It was of price
Invaluable. Riches, health, repose,

Whole kingdoms, life, were given for it, and he
Who got it was the winner still; and he
Who sold it durst not open his ear, nor look
On human face, he knew himself so vile.

RUMOUR AND SLANDER.

RUMOUR was the messenger Of defamation, and so swift that none Could be the first to tell an evil tale; And was, withal, so infamous for lies, That he who of her sayings, on his creed, The fewest enter'd, was deem'd wisest man. The fool, and many who had credit, too, For wisdom, grossly swallow'd all she said, Unsifted; and although, at every word, They heard her contradict herself, and saw Hourly they were imposed upon and mock'd, Yet still they ran to hear her speak, and stared, And wonder'd much, and stood aghast, and said It could not be; and, while they blush'd for shame At their own faith, and seem'd to doubt, believed, And whom they met, with many sanctions, told. So did experience fail to teach ;-so hard It was to learn this simple truth,-confirm'd At every corner by a thousand proofs,That common fame most impudently lied.

'Twas slander fill'd her mouth with lying words, Slander, the foulest whelp of sin. The man In whom this spirit enter'd was undone. His tongue was set on fire of hell, his heart Was black as death, his legs were faint with haste To propagate the lie his soul had framed, His pillow was the peace of families Destroy'd, the sigh of innocence reproach'd, Broken friendships, and the strife of brotherhoods, Yet did he spare his sleep, and hear the clock Number the midnight watches, on his bed, Devising mischief more; and early rose, And made most hellish meals of good men's names. From door to door you might have seen him speed, Or placed amidst a group of gaping fools, And whispering in their ears with his foul lips. Peace fled the neighbourhood in which he made His haunts; and, like a moral pestilence, Before his breath the healthy shoots and blooms Of social joy and happiness decay'd.

Fools only in his company were seen,

And those forsaken of God, and to themselves
Given up. The prudent shunn'd him and his house
As one who had a deadly moral plague.
And fain would all have shunn'd him at the day
Of judgment; but in vain. All who gave ear
With greediness, or wittingly their tongues
Made herald to his lies, around him wail'd;
While on his face, thrown back by injured men,
In characters of ever-blushing shame,
Appear'd ten thousand slanders, all his own.

WISDOM.

WISDOM is humble, said the voice of God. 'Tis proud, the world replied. Wisdom, said God, Forgives, forbears, and suffers, not for fear Of man, but God. Wisdom revenges, said The world, is quick and deadly of resentment, Thrusts at the very shadow of affront, And hastes, by death, to wipe its honour clean. Wisdom, said God, loves enemies, entreats, Solicits, begs for peace. Wisdom, replied The world, hates enemies, will not ask peace, Conditions spurns, and triumphs in their fall. Wisdom mistrusts itself, and leans on heaven, Said God. It trusts and leans upon itself, The world replied. Wisdom retires, said God, And counts it bravery to bear reproach, And shame, and lowly poverty, upright; And weeps with all who have just cause to weep. Wisdom, replied the world, struts forth to gaze, Treads the broad stage of life with clamorous foot, Attracts all praises, counts it bravery Alone to wield the sword, and rush on death; And never weeps, but for its own disgrace. Wisdom, said God, is highest, when it stoops Lowest before the Holy Throne; throws down Its crown, abased; forgets itself, admires, And breathes adoring praise. There wisdom stoops, Indeed, the world replied, there stoops, because It must, but stoops with dignity; and thinks And meditates the while of inward worth.

Thus did Almighty God, and thus the world, Wisdom define: and most the world believed, And boldly call'd the truth of God a lie. Hence, he that to the worldly wisdom shaped His character, became the favourite Of men, was honourable term'd, a man Of spirit, noble, glorious, lofty soul! And as he cross'd the earth in chase of dreams, Received prodigious shouts of warm applause. Hence, who to godly wisdom framed his life, Was counted mean, and spiritless, and vile; And as he walk'd obscurely in the path [tongue, Which led to heaven, fools hiss'd with serpent And pour'd contempt upon his holy head, And pour'd contempt on all who praised his name. But false as this account of wisdom was, The world's I mean, it was his best, the creed Of sober, grave, and philosophic men, With much research and cogitation framed, Of men who with the vulgar scorn'd to sit.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY is the son of ZACHARY MACAULAY, principally distinguished as a philanthropist, and as the coadjutor of CLARKSON in the cause of Anti-slavery. He was educated at CAMBRIDGE, and graduated with the highest honours. While at college he was a contributor to "Knight's Quarterly Magazine," and many of his best ballads were first published in that periodical. He chose the law for his profession. In 1825 his celebrated article on MILTON appeared in the "Edinburgh Review," and excited much attention and panegyric. This was the first of a series of papers which have been continued at intervals to the present day, all displaying strong peculiarities of character, analytical acuteness, a vast range of knowledge, considerable dialectical skill, great independence and affluence of thought, and much splendour, energy, and eloquence of diction. He soon after entered political life, was 'elected to parliament, and became one of the sturdiest, most eloquent, and most efficient of the supporters of the Reform Bill in the House of Commons. His various speeches, from 1831 to 1844, as reported in "Hansard's Parliamentary Debates," are characterized by

nearly the same qualities of manner which distinguish his written compositions, though pervaded often by even more directness, intensity, fire, and intellectual hardihood. They are not included in the collection of his miscellaneous writings. On the triumph of his party he was sent on a lucrative commission to India. He was Secretary at War under Lord MELBOURNE's administration, but, of course, shared in the defeat of the Whigs. He is said to be now engaged on an historical work, which will try the whole power and resources of his mind.

As a poet, MACAULAY displays the same vehemence and energy, the same rush of style, which have conferred such popularity on his prose. His earliest efforts in the ballad-style are probably his best, though his "Lays of Ancient Rome" are thought to exhibit more true imagination than he has shown in any of his preceding works. The sparkle and glow of his verse always take strong hold upon the sensibility and fancy, and of all writers, he is the last who could be accused of tediousness. The extracts we give will better illustrate his manner than the most laboured analysis.

HORATIUS.

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCLX.

LARS PORSENA of Clusium

By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it,

And named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west, and south and north,
To summon his array.

East and west, and south and north
The messengers ride fast,
And tower, and town, and cottage
Have heard the trumpet's blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan

Who lingers in his home,
When Porsena of Clusium
Is on the march for Rome.

The horsemen and the footmen
Are pouring in amain

From many a stately market-place;
From many a fruitful plain;

From many a lonely hamlet,

Which, hid by beech and pine,

Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest

Of purple Appennine;

From lordly Volaterræ,

Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants

For godlike kings of old; From seagirt Populonia,

Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky; From the proud mart of Pisa, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes Heavy with fair-hair'd slaves;

From where sweet Clanis wanders

Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns

Drop in dark Auser's rill;

Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
Of the Ciminian hill;
Beyond all streams Clitumnus

Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves
The great Volsinian mere.

But now no stroke of woodman

Is heard by Auser's rill;

No hunter tracks the stag's green path
Up the Ciminian hill;
Unwatch'd along Clitumnus
Grazes the milk-white steer;
Unharm'd the water-fowl may dip

In the Volsinian mere.

The harvests of Arretium,

This year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna,

This year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls, Whose sires have march'd to Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets,

The wisest of the land,

Who alway by Lars Porsena

Both morn and evening stand:

Evening and morn the Thirty

Have turned the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore.

And with one voice the Thirty

Have their glad answer given:

"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;

Go forth, beloved of Heaven;

Go, and return in glory

To Clusium's royal dome;

And hang round Nurscia's altars
The golden shields of Rome."

And now hath every city

Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium

Is met the great array,

A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting day.

For all the Etruscan armies

Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banish'd Roman, And many a stout ally; And with a mighty following To join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius,

Prince of the Latian name.

But by the yellow Tiber

Was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city,

The throng stopp'd up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days.

For aged folk on crutches,

And women great with child, And mothers sobbing over babes

That clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters

High on the necks of slaves,
And troops of sun-burnt husbandmen
With reaping-hooks and staves,

And droves of mules and asses
Laden with skins of wine,
And endless flocks of goats and sheep,
And endless herds of kine,
And endless trains of wagons

That creak'd beneath their weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, Choked every roaring gate.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian,
Could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing villages
Red in the midnight sky.
The fathers of the city,

They sat all night and day,
For every hour some horseman came
With tidings of dismay.

To eastward and to westward

Have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote, In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia

Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain.

On the low hills to westward

The consul fix'd his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust
Rise fast along the sky.

And nearer fast and nearer

Doth the red whirlwind come;
And louder still and still more loud,
From underneath that rolling cloud,
Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud,
The trampling, and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly

Now through the gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right,

In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of helmets bright,
The long array of spears.

And plainly and more plainly,
Above that glimmering line,
Now might ye'see the banners

Of twelve fair cities shine;
But the banner of proud Clusium
Was highest of them all,
The terror of the Umbrian,

The terror of the Gaul.

And plainly and more plainly

Now might the burghers know,

By port and vest, by horse and crest,
Each warlike Lucumo.

There Cilnius of Arretium

On his fleet roan was seen;
And Astur of the four-fold shield,

Girt with the brand none else may wield,
Tolumnius with the belt of gold,
And dark Verbenna from the hold
By reedy Thrasy mene.

Fast by the royal standard,
O'erlooking all the war,
Lars Porsena of Clusium

Sate in his ivory car.
By the right wheel rode Mamilius,
Prince of the Latian name;
And by the left false Sextus,

That wrought the deed of shame.

But when the face of Sextus
Was seen among the foes,
A yell that rent the firmament

From all the town arose.
On the house-tops was no woman
But spate towards him and hiss'd;
No child but scream'd out curses,
And shook its little fist.

But the consul's brow was sad,
And the consul's speech was low,
And darkly look'd he at the wall,

And darkly at the foe.
"Their van will be upon us

Before the bridge goes down;

And if they once may win the bridge,
What hope to save the town?"

Then out spake brave Horatius,
The captain of the gate:

"To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers

And the temples of his gods, "And for the tender mother

Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus
That wrought the deed of shame ?
"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopp'd by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?"
Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he:

"I will abide on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee." "Horatius," quoth the consul,

"As thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel

Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the state;
Then the great man help'd the poor,
And the poor man loved the great :
Then lands were fairly portion'd;

Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.

Now Roman is to Roman
More hateful than a foe,
And the Tribunes beard the high,
And the Fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,

In battle we wax cold;
Wherefore men fight not as they fought
In the brave days of old.

Now while the Three were tightening
Their harness on their backs,
The consul was the foremost man
To take in hand an axe;
And Fathers mix'd with commons
Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,
And loosed the props below.