None then foresaw his rise; ev'n now but few
Guess right the man so many thought they knew ;
Gossip accords him attributes like these-
A sage good-humour based on love of ease,
A mind that most things undisturb'dly weighed,
Nor deemed their metal worth the clink it made.
Such was the man, in part, to outward show;
Another man lay coiled from sight below-
As mystics tell us that this fleshly form
Enfolds a subtler which escapes the worm,
And is the true one which the Maker's breath
Quickened from dust, and privileged from death.
His was a restless, anxious intellect;
Eager for truth, and pining to detect;

Each ray of light that mind can cast on soul,
Chequering its course, or shining from its goal,
Each metaphysic doubt-each doctrine dim-
Plato or Pusey-had delight for him.

His mirth, though genial, came by fits and starts—
The man was mournful in his heart of hearts.
Oft would he sit or wander forth alone;
Sad-why? I know not; was it ever known?
Tears came with ease to those ingenuous eyes—
A verse, if noble, bade them nobly rise.
Hear him discourse, you'd think he scarcely felt;
No heart more facile to arouse or melt;
High as a knight's in some Castilian lay,
And tender as a sailor's in a play.

Thus was the Being with his human life
At variance-noiseless, for he veiled the strife;
The Being serious, gentle, shy, sincere,
The life St Stephen's, and a Court's career;
Trained first in salons gay with roué wits,

And light with morals the reverse of Pitt's.
As England's chief, let others judge his claim,
And strike just balance between praise and blame;

I from the Minister draw forth the man,

Such as I saw before his power began,

And glancing o'er the noblest of our time,

Who won the heights it wears out life to climb,
On that steep table-land which, viewed afar,

Appears so proud a neighbour of the star,
And, reach'd, presents dead levels in its rise
More dimm'd than valleys are by vapoury skies,

I mark not one concealing from mankind
A larger nature or a lovelier mind,

Or leaving safer from his own gay laugh

That faith in good which is the soul's best half.

There, formed to please, young TEMPLE we beholdYoung for the man who never will be oldMost grac'd disciple in that school of thought And style which Canning rather led than taught; The Eclectic School of thought, which flirts with many, Too worldly-wise to wed itself to any;

Free as it lists to differ or agree

With Locke or Leibnitz as the case may be;
Its change no sect can inconsistent call;
It shares with each enough to club with all.
The style-that lifts the subject into play,
Now firmly grasps it, and now jerks away:
When some keen argument would foil reply,
The fencer swerves, and lets the thrust go by-
Cries with a smile, "But empty air you pierce,"
Turns the quick wrist, and presto!-pinks in tierce.
To school and style-to all he takes from art-
Temple adds natural charm; he has a heart;
He lets you mark its swell, and hear its beat;
From yours it takes, to yours returns the heat;
Without a mask it looks forth from his face,
Gives to each mode a vivifying grace;
Bluster seems spirit, and a trivial jest
The cordial burst of sunshine in the breast.
Worthy of love, in him is never viewed
The statesman's vulgarest vice, ingratitude:
Whate'er the means by which he seeks his end,
He ne'er to Fortune sacrificed a friend.

Behind this light group, scholarlike, yet gay,
Stands thy pale shade, mysterious CASTLEREAGH!
Note that harmonious tragic mask of face,
Rigid in marble stillness; not a trace

In that close lip, so bland, and yet so cold-
In that smooth brow, so narrow, yet so bold,
Of fancy, passion, or the play of mind;
But Fate has pass'd there, and has left behind
The imperial look of one who rules mankind.
They much, in truth, misjudge him, who explain
His graceless language by a witless brain.

So firm his purpose, so resolved his will,

It almost seemed a craft to speak so ill—
As if, like Cromwell, flashing towards his end
Through cloudy verbiage none could comprehend.
Subtle and keen as some old Florentine,
And as relentless in disguised design,

But courteous with his Erin's native ease,

And strengthening sway by culturing arts that please; Stately in quiet high-bred self-esteem,

Fair as the Lovelace of a lady's dream,

Fearless in look, in thought, in word, and deed-
These gifts may fail to profit States !—Agreed;
But when men have them, States they always lead.
And much in him, as Time shall melt away

The mists which dim all names too near our day,
Shall stand forth large; far ends in Pitt's deep thought,

By him, if rudely, were securely wrought;

And though, trained early in too harsh a school,

He guessed not how the needful bonds of rule
Become the safer when the cautious hand,

As grows a people, lets its swathes expand,
He served, confirmed, enlarged his country's sway;
Ireland forgives him not-Three Kingdoms may.

There is an eloquence which aims at talk-A muse, though wingèd, that prefers to walk; Its easy graces so content the eye,

You'd fear to lose it if it sought to fly;

Light and yet vigorous, fearless yet well-bred,
As once it moved in TIERNEY'S airy tread.
Carelessly, as a wit about the town
Chats at your table some huge proser down,
He lounged into debate, just touch'd a foe,-
'Laughter and cheers'-A touch, sir? what a blow!
Declaiming never; with a placid smile

He bids you wonder why you are so vile;
One hand politely pointing out your crime,
The other-in his pocket all the time.

Many since then affect that easy way—
The Conversational's the vogue to-day;
But ease, the surest sign of strength in men,
Is to the oration hard as to the pen.
That talk which art as eloquence admits
Must be the talk of thinkers and of wits-

A living stream, which breaks from golden mines,
And by its overflow reveals their signs,
And not the wish-wash that, from five to eight,
Lags, in small Lethès, through the dead debate.

Who rises now, with an audacious grace? What tall pre-Adam of our trousered race, Breech'd and top-booted,-the revered costume Which Gilray gave our grandsires in their bloom? And hark! he speaks; you cheer him, yet you find His dress is less old-fashioned than his mind. Fine, nervous, sturdy, free-born British-rant ; Well, pass the word, some fustian, but not cant. No new sham-bitters froth that heady scorn, But hot old amber brewed by Parson Horne. Sincere if wayward, thoroughbred if bold, Survey the well-born demagogue of old;

Too rich to bribe, and much too proud for power,
And as to fear-a fico for the Tower!

In youth more popular than Fox ; in age,
When BURDETT spoke, few actors more the rage.
None gifted more to please the eye and ear,
The form so comely and the voice so clear.
Pitt's surly squires resigned their port, and ran
To hear the dangerous but large-acred man;
And trimmers shrank into yet smaller space,
Awed by such scorn of tyranny and place.

Some speak above their knowledge, some below; What Burdett knew (not much), he let you know; His speech ran over each Æolian chord, So vaguely pleasing that it never bored. Nor was it rude; whatever fear it woke In breasts patrician, a patrician spoke ; And if no lettered stores it could display, Still over letters it would pause and play, Surprise an elegance, conceive a trope, And pose logicians with a line from Pope.

Or young or old, no patriot more aloneWhigs claim him not, and Radicals disown. Ye modern liberal Benthamitic crew,

Nought had that Gracchus in top-boots with you! Talk not to him of moral revolutions,

Of normal schools, mechanics' institutions;

The heads of valiant freemen should be thick-
Your puny scholar scarce can stand a brick.
Talk not of means against intimidation,
And secret votes to womanise the nation;
Freemen are those who, every threat defying,
Fight to the poll while cabbage-stalks are flying.

With what amaze the stout old rebel saw
His Irish rival break, yet shirk, the law,
All patriot rules portentously reverse,
Turn Freedom's cap into Fortunio's purse !

Bid Mike and Paddy, much bewildered, know
"Who would be free, themselves, must strike the blow :
Your pence to-day, your liberties next year,
Erin-go-bragh!-I thank you for that cheer;"
The bargain struck; if aught remains to strike,
The blow descends on Paddy and on Mike;
Ev'n thus a chess king, castled in his nook,
Plays out his pawns and skulks behind a rook.

The Briton saw, and felt his hour was come;
His stout heart quail'd, his manly voice was dumb;
And as old Cleon, in the Athenian play,
Snubbed by the sausage-vendor, skulks away,
Sir Francis left the Demus he had led,

And Whigs installed the sausage-man instead.
Peace to his memory! grant him rash and vain,
'Twas the heart's blood that rose to clog the brain;
No trading demagogue, in him we scan
That pith of nations, the bold natural man,
Whose will may vibrate as the pulses throb,
Now scare a monarch, now despise a mob ;
Dauntless alike to prop the State or shock,
To fire the Capitol or leap the Rock.
But not to Erin's coarser chief deny,

Large if his faults, Time's large apology;

Child of a land that ne'er had known repose,

Our rights and blessings, Ireland's wrongs and woes;

Hate, at St Omer's into caution drill'd,

In Dublin law-courts subtilised and skill'd;
Hate in the man, whatever else appear

Fickle or false, was steadfast and sincere.
But with that hate a nobler passion dwelt-
To hate the Saxon was to love the Celt.