To thee fate has given A loftier part, To rule the wide peoples, To bind them to thee.” By the sole bond of loving, That bindeth the free, To hold thy own place, Neither lawless nor slave; Not driven by the despot, Nor trick’d by the knave.

p. 14

But these thoughts are too solemn. So play, my child, play, Never heeding the connoisseur Over the way, The last dances of course; Then with scant pause between, “Home, sweet Home,” the “Old Hundredth,” And “God Save the Queen.”

See the poor children swarm From dark court and dull street, As the gay music quickens The lightsome young feet. See them now whirl away, Now insidiously come, p. 15With a coy grace which conquers The squalor of home. See the pallid cheeks flushing With innocent pleasure At the hurry and haste Of the quick-footed measure. See the dull eyes now bright, And now happily dim, For some soft-dying cadence Of love-song or hymn. Dear souls, little joy Of their young lives have they, So thro’ hymn-tune and song-tune Play on, my child, play.

p. 15

For though dull pedants chatter Of musical taste, Talk of hindered researches And hours run to waste; Though they tell us of thoughts To ennoble mankind, Which your poor measures chase From the labouring mind; While your music rejoices One joyless young heart, Perish bookworms and books, Perish learning and art— Of my vagabond fancies I’ll even take my fill. “Qualche cosa, signor?” Yes, my child, that I will.

p. 16STUMBLING-BLOCKS.

p. 16

Think when you blame the present age, my friends, This age has one redeeming point—it mends. With many monstrous ills we’re forced to cope; But we have life and movement, we have hope. Oh! this is much! Thrice pitiable they Whose lot is cast in ages of decay, Who watch a waning light, an ebbing tide, Decline of energy and fall of pride, Old glories disappearing unreplaced, Receding culture and encroaching waste, Art grown pedantic, manners waxing coarse, The good thing still succeeded by the worse. We see not what those latest Romans saw, When o’er Italian cities, Latin law, Greek beauty, swept the barbarizing tide, And all fair things in slow succession died. ’Tis much that such defeat and blank despair, Whate’er our trials, ’tis not ours to bear, Much that the mass of foul abuse grows less, Much that the injured have sometimes redress, Wealth grows less haughty, misery less resigned, That policy grows just, religion kind, That all worst 

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