Chapter XII: Canto III

And said I that my limbs were old,
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor wither’d heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love;――
How could I, to the dearest theme
That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream,
So foul, so false a recreant prove!
How could I name love’s very name,
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!

In peace, love tunes the shepherd’s reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green,
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

W. E. GLADSTONE in March, 1880.

And thought they I was growing old?
And hoped they that my hate was cold;
And that my vengeful fire was fled,
And that my hopes of power were dead;
And that I might not sigh for place?

How could I to the dearest theme
That ever warmed a statesman’s dream
Prove recreant so foul and base?
How could I name its very name,
Nor wake to life its smould’ring flame?

In Session prudence tunes the reed,
’Tis otherwise across the Tweed!
In Parliament, one’s forced to wear
Restraint that one can doft elsewhere!
St. Stephen’s needs a smoothened tongue,
In Scotland fierce can be my song!
Blest he who has a double face,
When place is Heaven and Heaven is place!

From _They are Five_, by W. E. G. (London, David Bogue, 1880.)

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