Scene, — Hawarden Park. — Mr. Gladstone discovered engaged in felling a tree, surrounded by fourteen hundred Liberals of Bolton. He strikes a few blows; the crowd cheer vociferously. Mr. Gladstone pauses from his labors, reflects a few moments, and then sings sotto voce: —
How sweet are the sounds of the popular voice In an ex-ministerial ear!
How surely I know that the national choice Must go with the noisiest cheer!
As I gaze upon votaries faithful as those, And their incense of worship ascends,
I forget for a moment the malice of foes And — still better — the coldness of friends. I feel I am great, and I know I am good, And no longer regret my position As statesman who's taken to chopping of wood And abandoned the paths of ambition.
Is it vanity prompting me? is it self-love? Can I, safe in my conscience, decide
That it is not such feelings my bosom that move? Yes ... I think it's legitimate pride.
I am not — or I hope not — a lover of praise; I am humble — I hope so at least.
It will do me no harm — on occasional days — Such a rich popularity-feast. For perhaps I am great, and I think I am good, And it's surely a mark of submission To take, though a statesman, to chopping of wood, And abandon the paths of ambition.
[He strikes a few more blows with his axe: then again
pauses. The cheering is renewed.]
How simple I look! how unconsciously grand, As I rest from my toil for a space,
With my waistcoat thrown off, and my axe in my hand, And humanity's dew on my face!
Oh, my brethren in toil, who stand wond'ring around, By what ties have I bound you to me!
An orator, scholar, and statesman renowned, Condescending to cut down a tree! Yes, I know I am great, something tells me I'm good; And I feel it's a lofty position, A statesman's, who's taken to chopping of wood, And forsaken the paths of ambition.
[He gazes round him for a few moments with visibly
increasing complacency.]
The consular woodman! this citizen-host! Could the old world's imperial queen
In the days of her early simplicity boast A more nobly republican scene?
Let me think, as I watch the admirers who note The simple pursuits of my home,
Of Lucius Quinctius summoned by vote Of the State from the furrow to Rome. Yes, I feel I am great, and I know I am good, And I'm greater by far, with submission, As statesman, when occupied chopping of wood Than when treading the paths of ambition.
But Rome? Is it Roman or Greek that's recalled? 'Tis the heroes so dear to my pen,
Pelides, whose war-cry the Trojans appalled, Agamemnon the leader of men.
For have I not led men aright when astray? Turned them back from the false to the true?
And do not the Tories and Turks with dismay Recollect what my war-cry can do? Yes, yes, I am great, and I surely am good, Or I could not endure the position Of statesman resigned to the chopping of wood, And renouncing the paths of ambition.
But both Roman dictator and Danaan chief In one cardinal point I excel,
For I am — as I hazard the humble belief — Conscientiously Christian as well.
And content with all this, let detractors repeat — As with angry persistence they do —
That my claim to their homage I p'r'aps might complete Were I only an Englishman too. Let them rave — I am great; let them sneer — I am good; And they vex not the happy condition Of statesmen who, taking to chopping of wood, Have abandoned the paths of ambition.
