A fighting soldier he has been—­
    Yet by his manners you would guess,
  That he his whole long life had spent
    In scenes of country quietness.

  His talk is all of things long past,
    For modern facts no pleasure yield—­
  Of the fam’d year of forty-five,
    Of William, and Culloden’s field.

  The deeds of this eventful age,
    Which princes from their thrones have hurl’d,
  Can no more interest wake in him
    Than stories of another world.

  When I his length of days revolve,
    How like a strong tree he hath stood,
  It brings into my mind almost
    Those patriarchs old before the flood.

THE SPARTAN BOY

  When I the memory repeat
  Of the heroic actions great,
  Which, in contempt of pain and death,
  Were done by men who drew their breath
  In ages past, I find no deed
  That can in fortitude exceed
  The noble Boy, in Sparta bred,
  Who in the temple minist’red.

    By the sacrifice he stands,
  The lighted incense in his hands. 
  Through the smoking censer’s lid
  Dropp’d a burning coal, which slid
  Into his sleeve, and passed in
  Between the folds ev’n to the skin. 
  Dire was the pain which then he prov’d;
  But not for this his sleeve he mov’d,
  Or would the scorching ember shake
  Out from the folds, lest it should make
  Any confusion, or excite
  Disturbance at the sacred rite. 
  But close he kept the burning coal,
  Till it eat itself a hole
  In his flesh.  The slanders by
  Saw no sign, and heard no cry,
  Of his pangs had no discerning,
  Till they smell’d the flesh aburning
  All this he did in noble scorn,
  And for he was a Spartan born.

    Young student, who this story readest,
  And with the same thy thoughts now feedest,
  Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid
  To do the thing the Spartan did;
  Thy feebler heart could not sustain
  Such dire extremity of pain. 
  But in this story thou mayst see,
  What may useful prove to thee. 
  By his example thou wilt find,
  That to the ingenuous mind
  Shame can greater anguish bring
  Than the body’s suffering;
  That pain is not the worst of ills,
  Not when it the body kills;
  That in fair religion’s cause,
  For thy country, or the laws,
  When occasion due shall offer
  ’Tis reproachful not to suffer.
  If thou shouldst a soldier be,
  And a wound should trouble thee,
  If without the soldier’s fame
  Thou to chance shouldst owe a maim,
  Do not for a little pain
  On thy manhood bring a stain;
  But to keep thy spirits whole,
  Think on the Spartan and the coal.

QUEEN ORIANA’S DREAM

(Text of 1818)