Saturday, 12 May 2012

A Jacobite's Epitaph

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Macaulay's best poem. It does not describe my feelings about living abroad.

A Jacobite's Epitaph


TO my true king I offer'd free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.For him I languish'd in a foreign clime, Gray-hair'd with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;Beheld each night my home in fever'd sleep,Each morning started from the dream to weep;Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gaveThe resting-place I ask'd, an early grave.O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,From that proud country which was once mine own,By those white cliffs I never more must see,By that dear language which I spake like thee,Forget all feuds, and shed one English tearO'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

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