On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down ; A day of onsets of despair! Dashed on every rocky square, Their surging charges foamed themselves away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; Through the long-tormented air Heaven flashed a sudden jubilant ray. And down we swept and charged and overthrew. So great a soldier taught us there, What long-enduring hearts could do In that world's-earthquake, Waterloo ! And pure as he from taint of craven guile, O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If love of country move thee there at all, Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! A people's voice, The proof and echo of all human fame, A people's voice, when they rejoice At civic revel and pomp and game, VII. A people's voice! we are a people yet. To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. And drill the raw world for the march of mind, Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall: In thunder, silent: yet remember all He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke He never shall be shamed. VIII. Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Followed by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. Him who cares not to be great, But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island-story For the right, and learns to deaden Not once or twice in our fair island-story Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 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 and through 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. IX. Peace, his triumph will be sung By some yet unmoulded tongue Far on in summers that we shall not see: Peace, it is a day of pain For one about whose patriarchal knee O peace, it is a day of pain For one upon whose hand and heart and brain Ours the pain, be his the gain ! From talk of battles loud and vain, And brawling memories all too free As befits a solemn fane: We revere, and while we hear The tides of Music's golden sea Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, There must be other nobler work to do For though the Giant Ages heave the hill And break the shore, and evermore Make and break, and work their will: Though world on world in myriad myriads roll And other forms of life than ours, What know we greater than the soul? On God and Godlike men we build our trust. Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears: The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears: The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears; He is gone who seemed so great.— Gone; but nothing can bereave him And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him. And in the vast cathedral leave him. God accept him, Christ receive him! ALFRED TENNYSON. From In Memoriam. TRONG Son of God, immortal Love, STRO Whom we, that have not seen thy face, Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Tnou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood thou: |