to himself and his fellows the mask that is almost a face.
Truest of hypocrites, he!--in himself entangled, he thinks
Earth uprising to Heaven, while earth-ward the heavenly sinks:
Conscience, we grant it, his guide; but conscience drugg'd and deceived;
Conscience which all that his self-belief whisper'd as duty believed.
And though he sought earnest for God, in life-long wrestle and prayer,
Yet the sky by a veil was darken'd, a phantom flitting in air;
For a cloud from that seething cavernous heart fumed out in his youth,
And whatever he will'd in the strength of the soul was imaged as truth:--
Grew with his growth: And now 'tis Ambition, disguised in success;
And he walks with the step assured, that cares not its issue to guess,
Clear in immediate purpose: and moulding his party at will,
He thrones it o'er obstinate sects, his ideal constrain'd to fulfil.
Cool in his very heat, self-master, he masters the realm:
God and His glory the flag; but King Oliver lord of the helm!
As he needs, steers crooked or straight: with his eye controlling the
proud,
While blandness runs from his tongue, as the candidate fawns on the
crowd;
Sagest of Titans, he stands; dark, ponderous, muddy-profound,
Greatness untemper'd, untuned; no song, but a chaos of sound:--
Yet the key-note is ever beneath: 'Mere humble instruments! See!
Poor weak saints, at the best: but who has triumph'd as we?'
Thanks the Lord for each massacre-mercy, His glory, for His is the Cause:
Catlike he bridles, and purrs about God: but within are the claws,
The lion-strength is within!--Vane, Ludlow, Hutchinson, knew,
When the bauble of Law disappear'd, and the sulky senate withdrew:
When the tyrannous Ten sword-silenced the land, and the necks of the
strong
By the heel of their great Dictator were bruised, wrong trampling on
wrong.
Least willing of despots! and fain the fair temple of Law to restore,
Sheathing the sword in the sceptre: But lo! as in legends of yore,
Once drawn, once redden'd, it may not return to the scabbard!--and
straight
On that iron-track'd path he had framed to the end he is goaded by Fate.
And yet, as a temperate man, to flavour some exquisite dish,
Without stint pours forth the red wine, thus only can compass his wish;
Upon Erin the death-mark he brands, the Party and Cause to secure;
Not bloodthirsty by birth; just, liquor 'twas needful to pour;
Only the wine of man's blood! . . . But the horrible sacrament thrill'd
Right through the hea