John Patrick, Third Marquess of Bute, K.T. (1847-1900) Part 25

But O! when history with frigid eye Shall write the lengthened list of deeds gone by, And deal with justice, pa.s.sionless but true, The meed deserved the living never knew, Forbid it, Heaven! her voice divine should stay The tide of praise that swells his name to-day.

Tell how, when victory had wreathed his arms, And peace at length replaced war's dread alarms, (Such peace is theirs who can resist no more) When captive led from France's vanquished sh.o.r.e A conquered monarch graced the victor's car, The splendid trophy of the finished war.

Say how, eclipsed in an inferior's guise, He scorned to feed with show the people's eyes; {234} And spurning Roman conqueror's gaudy pride, Rode, humble, by the French usurper's side.

Such deed as this shall live to mock decay When time has borne war's fading wreaths away.

The golden corn shall wave on Cressy's plain, The thrush shall sing in Poitier's woods again; The rosemaries upon Najarra's hill Shall perfume Najarilla's noiseless rill; The fields of France shall bloom in verdant pride, Unstained by ruthless conquest's crimson tide; The summer roses bloom in far Castile-- While, levelled by the dart we all must feel, The mortal victor lies--a wreck of clay, Once brilliant and as perishing as they.

There mark the armour that in life he wore Hangs o'er his dreamless head! O never more Shall coat so princely fence so meet a heart!

And still, as if demanding ne'er to part, There yet the leopards in their sanguine shield Alternate with the lilies' heavenly field.

One step aside, and blazing through the gloom, The pinnacles that deck the martyr's[3] tomb Rise high and glittering o'er the golden urn; And there for aye the dying tapers burn, As if they cried to men in protest high That soon their earthly honours all must die; But that upon the Christian's sainted shade Alone is bound a wreath that cannot fade.

O! ye who lie together, levelled here, In life so sundered and in death so near-- He who has shed men's blood to win a throne, And he who for Religion shed his own; What thoughts unnumbered on the rapid mind Arise, with mingled grief and awe combined!

O! for a worthier art with skill to paint The light eternal that surrounds the saint: And justly mete the song of swelling praise The hero's virtues force our hearts to raise!

{235} Shades of the great, the holy, and the brave, Whose earthly vestment slumbers in the grave, Teach us by bright example each to tread The heavenward pathway hallowed by the dead.

What though the trembling element of earth May swell again the clay that gave it birth; What though again the wanton breeze reclaim The vital breath it lent to warm your frame; Not less ye live because our feebler race Your lordly presence now no more shall grace.

Where'er the wild and careless winds can blow, Where'er the ocean's cold, dark waters flow, Where'er the heart heroic dares to die, There--there your fadeless memory lives for aye, Till Ruin claims her universal sway, And worn-out Time himself shall pa.s.s away.

BUTE.

[1] Edward Bruce was once King of Northern Ireland.

[2] The symbols of the chief powers of Europe are taken from a royal masque in the reign of Henry VIII. The pomegranate represents Spain, the olive Italy, and the pine-cone Germany.

[3] St. Thomas of Canterbury.

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APPENDIX II (p. 51)

HYMN ON ST. MAGNUS

(Written by Bute at Kirkwall during a visit to Orkney, in July, 1867, _aet._ 19.)

Glory be to Jesus In the highest heaven, For His grace triumphant Unto Magnus given-- Wondrous grace that made him, Looking on the Cross, For the love of Jesus Count all things but loss.

Born to all earth's splendour, Cradled by a throne, He in very childhood Knew G.o.d's love alone; Nazareth's holy stripling Boyhood's pattern made; Through the years of manhood By his Saviour stayed.

Like to Paul converted From a world of sin, He into our Master's Sheepfold entered in-- Till G.o.d's love within him Lit and warmed him through, As the bush of h.o.r.eb Burned but ever grew.

With the saintly maiden.

Whom he made his bride, For ten years a virgin Lay he side by side; {237} Like unto the angels Of our G.o.d in heaven, Who in carnal wedlock Give not nor are given.

From the Lord's own altar Haled, the martyr died; Him the Lord's own offering His last breath supplied.

Earthy lilies stricken Perish on the ground, But G.o.d's witness dying Fadeless glory found.

Jesus, by whose mercy Magnus was victorious, Give us grace to follow In his footsteps glorious; So by Thee, our Saviour, Truth, and life, and way, We may come where he is In undying day.

Glory to the Father, Glory to the Son, Glory to the Spirit, Three, and three in one, Glory from his creatures Both in earth and heaven To the King of Martyrs Endlessly be given. Amen.

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APPENDIX III (p. 51)

"OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS"

(Written by Bute in November, 1867, _aet._ 20.)

The world is very foul and dark, And sin has marred its outline fair; But we are taught to look above, And see another image there.

And I will raise my eyes above-- Above a world of sin and woe, Where sinless, griefless, near her Son, Sits Mary on her throne of snow.

Mankind seems very foul and dark, In some lights that we see it in, Lo! as the tide of life goes by, How many thousands lie in sin.

But I will raise my eyes above-- Above the world's unthinking flow, To where, so human yet so fair, Sits Mary on her throne of snow.

My heart is very foul and dark; Yes, strangely foul sometimes to me Glare up the images of sin My tempter loves to make me see.

Then may I lift my eyes above-- Above these pa.s.sions vile and low, To where, in pleading contrast bright, Sits Mary on her throne of snow!

And oft that throne, so near our Lord's, To earth some of its radiance lends; And Christians learn from her to shun The path impure that h.e.l.lward tends, {239} For they have learnt to look above-- Above the prizes here below, To where, crowned with a starry crown, Sits Mary on her throne of snow.

Blest be the whiteness of her throne; That shines so purely, grandly there!

With such a glory pa.s.sing bright, Where all is bright and all is fair!

G.o.d make me lift my eyes above, And love its holy radiance so That some day I may come where still Sits Mary on her throne of snow.

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APPENDIX IV (p. 211)

A PROVOST'S PRAYER

The following was the prayer always said by Bute at the opening of the meetings of the Town Council of Rothesay, during the term of his provostship. It was composed by himself, or rather compiled from two prayers contained in the Roman Breviary--one the Collect for Whit-Sunday, and the other a prayer at the end of the Litany of the Saints.

PRAYER.

"O G.o.d, Who dost teach the hearts of Thy people by sending to them the light of Thine Holy Spirit; grant unto us that the same Thy Spirit may inspire us in all our doings by His heavenly grace, and bless us therein by His continual help, that every prayer and work of ours may begin from Thee and by Thee be duly ended, and that we, who cannot do anything that is good without Thee, may so by Thee be enabled to act according to Thy will, which is our sanctification; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Who liveth and reigneth with Thee and the Holy Spirit, one G.o.d, world without end. Amen."