Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800–1859)

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,

Grey-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, gave

The 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 tear

O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.