Classic Poem

So the chattering knaves have vanished, by a mercy all are flown,
And in the slowly deepening twilight I am silent and alone,
Silent I am thought by nature, 'tis a legacy I bear,
From my grim old grandsire yonder, and a virtue great, but rare;
And for solitude, the desert, if its drear red plain I sought,
Could not be more lonely to me, than this bustling English court,
All my soul beyond the ocean to my ancient home is flown,
And the palace of a stranger holds me weary and alone.
Ancient friends have died around me, and alone I hold the fight,
Served by mean and fawning traitors, hateful to my thought and sight,
Lies a shadow over Bentinck, and our minds we may not join.
Schomberg sleeps with blood that mingles darkly with the rushing Boyne;
And a newer race is round me, cold and strange to look upon,
In the calm of grasping Churchill, and the smile of proud St. John;
Men who drink the State's donation in the toasts of exiled names,
Men who wear the stars of William, while they break the seals of James.
Though I doubt not many a homestead, through this happy northern land,
Oft could show in Whig and Tory, noble heart and toiling hand.
But this people cannot love me, base or faithful, low or high,
To the worst I am a master, to the best but an ally.
Once only, when danger threatened, and I faced it sword in hand,
With beneath the Irish river, and in front the Irish band—
And the English, never silent, to the praises of the brave,
Hailed me as a king and comrade, sent to govern, and to save.
It were better I had fallen on that stern, but glorious day,
Where the Rapparee, and red-coat, mingled in the roaring fray.
Better that the grazing bullet had been driven through my breast,
And beneath the Boyne's dark waters laid my weary limbs to rest;
But I lived to see their kindness in my old age dim and cease,
And that flash of glory fading in the drearier work of peace.
Toiling without thanks or honour, while the men I save stand by.
In a work that must be finished ere I earn my right to die;
Still the old fight roars around us, trumpets blow, and chargers prance,
And a hundred tribes are writhing 'neath the tyrant heel of France.
And we yet must teach the lesson Louis' spangled crowds among,
Though old William's heart is heavy, yet his brain and hand are strong;
Yet shall Luxembourg and Condé see our armies going forth,
And the blazoned throne of Louis shake beneath the banded north,
But the victor must be lonely, dark and silent as the tomb,
Save one memory in my spirit smiling gently on my gloom;
Yonder stands she, smiling ever, 'mid the Stuart's painted frowns,
Like a woodland garland lying 'mid a wealth of jewelled crowns,
Smile then on, and let me fancy 'tis once more thy presence fair,
Which I see and watch, forgetting 'tis thy painted semblance there;
Let them stay without, the schemers, plan or quarrel, or agree,
And for this one hour of evening, let me be alone with thee.