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"Bravo, Annex!" they shouted, every one,-- "Not Mrs.Kemble's self had better done." "Quite so," she stammered in her awkward way,-- Not just the thing, but something she must say.
The teaspoon chorus tinkled to its close When from his chair the MAN OF LAW arose, Called by her voice whose mandate all obeyed, And took the open volume she displayed.
Tall, stately, strong, his form begins to own Some slight exuberance in its central zone,-- That comely fulness of the growing girth Which fifty summers lend the sons of earth.
A smooth, round disk about whose margin stray, Above the temples, glistening threads of gray; Strong, deep-cut grooves by toilsome decades wrought On brow and mouth, the battle-fields of thought; A voice that lingers in the listener's ear, Grave, calm, far-reaching, every accent clear,-- (Those tones resistless many a foreman knew That shaped their verdict ere the twelve withdrew;) A statesman's forehead, athlete's throat and jaw, Such the proud semblance of the Man of Law.
His eye just lighted on the printed leaf, Held as a practised pleader holds his brief.
One whispered softly from behind his cup, "He does not read,--his book is wrong side up! He knows the story that it holds by heart,-- So like his own! How well he'll act his part!" Then all were silent; not a rustling fan Stirred the deep stillness as the voice began.
THE STATESMAN'S SECRET WHO of all statesmen is his country's pride, Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide?
He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear; He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere.
Born where the primal fount of Nature springs By the rude cradles of her throneless kings, In his proud eye her royal signet flames, By his own lips her Monarch she proclaims.
Why name his countless triumphs, whom to meet Is to be famous, envied in defeat?
The keen debaters, trained to brawls and strife, Who fire one shot, and finish with the knife, Tried him but once, and, cowering in their shame, Ground their hacked blades to strike at meaner game.
The lordly chief, his party's central stay, Whose lightest word a hundred votes obey, Found a new listener seated at his side, Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied, Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled floor, Met the all-conquering, fought,--and ruled no more.
See where he moves, what eager crowds attend! What shouts of thronging multitudes ascend! If this is life,--to mark with every hour The purple deepening in his robes of power, To see the painted fruits of honor fall Thick at his feet, and choose among them all, To hear the sounds that shape his spreading name Peal through the myriad organ-stops of fame, Stamp the lone isle that spots the seaman's chart, And crown the pillared glory of the mart, To count as peers the few supremely wise Who mark their planet in the angels' eyes,-- If this is life-- What savage man is he Who strides alone beside the sounding sea?
Alone he wanders by the murmuring shore, His thoughts as restless as the waves that roar; Looks on the sullen sky as stormy-browed As on the waves yon tempest-brooding cloud, Heaves from his aching breast a wailing sigh, Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded sky.
Ask him his griefs; what midnight demons plough The lines of torture on his lofty brow; Unlock those marble lips, and bid them speak The mystery freezing in his bloodless cheek.
His secret?
Hid beneath a flimsy word; One foolish whisper that ambition heard; And thus it spake: "Behold yon gilded chair, The world's one vacant throne,--thy plate is there!" Ah, fatal dream! What warning spectres meet In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat! Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his ear The maddening taunt he cannot choose but hear "Meanest of slaves, by gods and men accurst, He who is second when he might be first Climb with bold front the ladder's topmost round, Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the ground!" Illustrious Dupe! Have those majestic eyes Lost their proud fire for such a vulgar prize?
Art thou the last of all mankind to know That party-fights are won by aiming low?
Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal sign, That party-hirelings hate a look like thine?
Shake from thy sense the wild delusive dream Without the purple, art thou not supreme?
And soothed by love unbought, thy heart shall own A nation's homage nobler than its throne!.