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ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
Full cold my greeting was and dry :
She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; I saw with half-uncouscious eye
She wore the colors I approved.
3. She took the little ivory chest,
With half a sigh she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest,
And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings,
My gifts, when gifts of mine could please ; As looks a father on the things
or his dead son, I look'd on these.
She told me all her friends had said ;
I raged against the public liar; She talk'd as if her love were dead,
But in my words were seeds of fire. “No more of love: your sex is known:
I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone,
The woman cannot be believed.
5. "Thro' glander, meanest spawn of liell
All is over and done: (And women's slander is the worst),
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.
Let the bell be toll'd.
Render thauks to the Giver,
Under the cross of gold
That shines over city aud river,
There he shall rest forever 6.
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll'd:
And a reverent people behold
The towering car, the sable steeds:
Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds,
Dark in its funeral fold.
Let the bell be tolled :
And a deeper knell in the heart be knollid; “Dark porch," I said, “and silent aisle,
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'a
Thro' the dome of the golden croes ;
His captain's-ear has heard them boom
When he with those deep voices wronght,
Guarding realms and kings from shame; 1.
With those deep voices our dead captain taught BURY the Great Duke
The tyrant, and asserts his claim With an empire's lamentation,
In that dread sound to the great name, Let us bury the Great Duke
Which he bas worn so pure of blame, To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, lu praise and in dispraise the same, Mourning when their leaders fall,
A man of well-attemper'd frame, Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
O civic muse, to such a name, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.
To such a name for ages long,
To such a name, 2.
Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-ringing avenues of song.
6. Let the sound of those he wrought for,
Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his boues forevermore,
With banner and with music, with soldier and with
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my resti 3.
Mighty seaman, this is he Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
Was great by land as thou by sea. As fits an universal woe,
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, Let the long long procession go,
The greatest sailor since our world began, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
Now, to the roll of muffled drums, And let the mournful martial music blow;
To thee the greatest soldier comes : The last great Englishıman is low.
For this is he
For, eaving that, ye help to save mankind
Was great by land as thou by sea;
8. Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, Follow'd by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hand: Lavish IIonor shower'd all her stars, Aud afluent Fortune emptied all her hurn. Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great, But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his jouruey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden-roses. Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevailid, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table-lands To which our God Himself is moon and sun. Such was he: his work is done. But while the races of mankind endure, Let his great example stand Colossal, seen of every land, And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure ; Till in all lands aud thro' all human story The path of duty be the way to glory: And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game, And when the long-illumined cities flame, Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name.
7. A people's voice! we are a people yet. Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers; Thank IIim who isled us here, and roughly set His Saxon in blowy seas and storming showers, We have a voice, with which to pay the debt or boundless love and reverence and regret To those great men who fought, and kept it onrs. And keep it ours, O God, from brute control; O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul of Europe, keep our noble England whole, And save the one true seed of freedom sown Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, That sober freedom ont of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings;
9. Peace, his triumph will be eng By some yet nnmoulded tongue Far on in summers that we shall not see. Peace, it is a day of pain For one abont whose patriarchal knee Late the little children clung: O peace, it is a day of pain
Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Not the clipt palm of which they boost;
But distant color, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citade! on the coast,
Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olives green ;
Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,
Where oleanders flush'd the bed of silent torrents, gravel-spread ;
And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten or ice, far up on a mountain head.
We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, Those niched shapes of noble mould,
A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old.
For one upon whose hand and heart and brain
nothing can bereave him
At Florence too what golder hours,
What drives abont the fresh Cascino, Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers.
In bright vignettes, and each complete, of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,
Or palace, how the city glitter'd, Toro' cypress avenues, at our feet. But when we crost the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain:
of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.
And stern and sad (so rare the smiles of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles,
Porch-pillars on the lion resting, And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.
O Milan, O the chanting quires,
The height, the space, the gloom, the gioryt A monat of marble, a hundred spires !
I climb'd the roofs at break of day; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.
I "tood among the silent statnes, And statued pinnacles, mute as they.
How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, Was Monte Rosa, hanging there
A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys And snowy dells in a golden air.
Remember how we came at last
Had wlown the lake beyond his limit, And all was flooded ; and how we past
WRITTEN AT EDINBURGII. O Love, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine ;
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. What Roman strength Turbia show'd In ruin, by the mountain road;
How like a gem, beneath, the city
To meet the sun and sunny waters,
Where, here and there, on sandy beaches
Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove, Now pacing mute by ocean's rim; Till, in a narrow street and dim,
I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and loyally drank to him.
From Como, when the light was gray, And in my head, for half the day,
The rich Virgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way,
Like ballad-burthen music, kept,
To that fair port below the castle or Queen Theodolind, where we slep! ;
Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake
A cypress in the moonlight shake, The moonlight touching o'er a terrace One tall Agavè above the lake.
What more! we took onr last adien,
But ere we reach'd the highest summit I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you.
TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE.—THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 147
But ill for him who, bettering not with time,
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
For, being of that honest few,
Should eighty thousand college councils
Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown
All round a careless-order'd garden
And only hear the magpie gossip
And further on, the hoary Channel
Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade ! “Charge for the guns !" he said. Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Where, if below the milky steep
And on thro' zones of light and shadow
Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win:
“Forward, the Light Brigade !" Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier kuew
Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die, Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Or whether war's avenging rod
Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God;
Volley'd and thunder'd ,
Rode the six hundred.
How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor :
How gain in life. os life advances, Valor and charity more and more.
And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my own ideal knight, “Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
THE COMING OF ARTHUR. Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; LEONOGRAN, the King of Cameliard, Who spoke no slander, no, nor listend to it; Hnd one fair daughter, and none other child; Who loved one only and who clave to her-" And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, Her-over all whose realms to their last isle, Guinevere, and in her his one delight. Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
For many a petty king ere Arthur came Darkening the world. We have lost bim: he is gone: Riled in this isle, avd ever waging war We know him now: all narrow jealousies
Each upon other, wasted all the land; Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
And still from time to time the heathen lost How modest, kindly, all-accomplish’d, wise,
Swarm'd overseas, and barried what was left. With what sublime repression of himself,
And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, And in what limits, and how tenderly;
Wherein the beast was ever more avd more, Not swaying to this faction or to that;
But man was less and less, till Arthnr camne. Not making his high place the lawless perch For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, or wing'd ambitious, nor a vantage-ground
And after him King Uther funght and died, For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of years Bnt either fail'd to make the kingdom one. Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, And after these King Arthur for a space, Before a thousand peering littleuesses,
And thro' the puissance of his Table Round, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, Drew all their petty princedoms under him, And blackens every blot: for where is he,
Their king and head, and made a realm, and reign'da Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than bis?
And thng the land of Cameliard was waste, Or how shonld England dreaming of his sons Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, Hope more for these than some inheritance
Avd none or few to scare or chase the beast; or such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear Thou noble Father of her Kings to be,
Came night and day, and rooted in the fieids, Laborious for her people and her poor
And wallow'd in the gardens of the King. Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day
And ever and anon the wolf wonld sien] Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste
The children and devour, but now and then, To fruitful strises and rivalries of peace
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam
To human sucklings; and the children, housed or letters, dear to Science, dear to Art,
In her foul den, there at their ment would growl, Dear to thy land and onrs, a Prince indeed,
And mock their foster-mother on fonr feet, Beyond all titles, and a household name,
Till, straighten'd, they grew np to wolf-like men, Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good.
Worse than the wolves. And King Leodograu
Groan'd for the Roman legions here again, Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure; And Cæsar's eagle: then his brother king, Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure,
Urien, assail'd him: last a heathen horde, Remembering all the beanty of that star
Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood, Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye made And on the spike that split the mother's heart One light together, but has past and leaves
Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed, The Crown a lonely splendor.
The knew not whither he should turn fur aid.