olicy by the Foreign Secretary with the greatest anxiety. Lord
Russell's speech, will, I am sure, be of immense service both to
Europe and to America. It has the _juste milieu_, and withal
does not suppress the sympathy which every good man must feel for
the cause of freedom, in a manner which more than ever justifies
the Loch Katrine boatman's opinion of his "terrible judgment."

I cannot help feeling that this speech has for the first time
publicly placed the position of England in its true light before
the world, and I with many another one am very grateful for it.
Among all Lord Russell's many titles to fame and to public
gratitude, the manner in which he has steered the vessel of the
State through the Scylla and Charybdis of the American War will, I
think, always stand conspicuous.... Now I am going to ask a great
favour. I saw at Minto a copy of verses written for the
summer-house at Pembroke Lodge, of which I formed the highest
opinion. May I have a copy of them? I should really be most
sincerely grateful and treasure them up amongst the things I really
value.

These are the lines referred to by Mr. Harcourt:

To J.R. PEMBROKE LODGE, _June_ 30, 1850

Here, statesman, rest, and while thy ranging sight
Drinks from old sources ever new delight
Unbind the weary shackles of the week,
And find the Sabbath thou art come to seek.
Here lay the babbling, lying Present by,
And Past and Future call to counsel high;
To Nature's worship say thy loud Amen,
And learn of solitude to mix with men.
Here hang on every rose a thorny care,
Bathe thy vexed soul in unpolluted air,
Fill deep from ancient stream and opening flower,
From veteran oak and wild melodious bower,
With love, with awe, the bright but fleeting hour.
Here bid the breeze that sweeps dull vapours by,
Leaving majestic clouds to deck the sky,
Fan from thy brow the lines unrest has wrought,
But leave the footprint of each nobler thought.
Now turn where high from Windsor's hoary walls,
To keep her flag unstained thy Sovereign calls;
Now wandering stop where wrapt in mantle dun,
As if her guilty head Heaven's light would shun,
London, gigantic parent, looks to thee,
Foremost of million sons her guide to be;
On the fair land in gladness now gaze round