Thomas Babbington Macaulay
Thomas Babington Macaulay, 1st Baron Macaulay PC was a British poet, historian and Whig politician. He wrote extensively as an essayist and reviewer, and on British history. He also held political office as Secretary at War between 1839 and 1841 and Paymaster-General between 1846 and 1848.
The son and eldest child of Zachary Macaulay, a Scottish Highlander who became a colonial governor and abolitionist, Thomas Macaulay was born in Leicestershire, England. He was noted as a child prodigy. As a toddler, gazing out the window from his cot at the chimneys of a local factory, he is reputed to have put the question to his mother: "Does the smoke from those ... more »
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Thomas Babbington Macaulay Poems
A Lay Made About the Year Of The City CCCLX I
The Cavalier's March to London
To horse! to horse! brave Cavaliers! To horse for Church and Crown! Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears! And ho for London town!
On that great, that awful day, This vain world shall pass away. Thus the sibyl sang of old, Thus hath holy David told.
The Battle of Moncontour
Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour, When the children of darkness and evil had power, When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.
An Election Ballad
As I sate down to breakfast in state, At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring, With Betty beside me to wait, Came a rap that almost beat the door in.
The Last Buccaneer
The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear, When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer.
A Radical War Song
Awake, arise, the hour is come, For rows and revolutions; There's no receipt like pike and drum For crazy constitutions.
Sermon in a Churchyard
Let pious Damon take his seat, With mincing step and languid smile, And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, Sabaean odours o'er the aisle;
Lines Written in August
The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er; Worn out with toil, and noise, and scorn, and spleen, I slumbered, and in slumber saw once more A room in an old mansion, long unseen.
NOW glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!
Epitaph on Henry Martyn
Here Martyn lies. In Manhood's early bloom The Christian Hero finds a Pagan tomb. Religion, sorrowing o'er her favourite son, Points to the glorious trophies that he won.
The Battle of Naseby
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
Epitaph on a Jacobite
To my true king I offered 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.
Lines to the Memory of Pitt
Oh Britain! dear Isle, when the annals of story Shall tell of the deeds that thy children have done, When the strains of each poet shall sing of their glory, And the triumphs their skill and their valour have won.
Comments about Thomas Babbington Macaulay
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
A Lay Made About the Year Of The City CCCLX
Lars Porsena of Closium
By the Nine Gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin
Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore it,
And named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west and south and north,
To summon his array.
East and west and south and north
The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
Have heard the trumpet's blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan
Who lingers in his home,
When Porsena of Clusium
Is on the march for...