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My love involves the love before;
Let the long, long procession go, My love is vaster passion now;
And let the sorrowing crowd about it Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou,
grow, I seem to love thee more and more.
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.
Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the past, CXXXI
No more in soldier fashion will he greet O living will that shalt endure
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. When all that seems shall suffer shock,
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute! Rise in the spiritual rock,
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, Flow thro' our deeds and make them
The statesman-warrior, moderate, reso
Whole in himself, a common good. That we may lift from out of dust
Mourn for the man of amplest influence, A voice as unto him that hears,
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, A cry above the conquer'd years
Our greatest yet with least pretence, To one that with us works, and trust,
Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
The truths that never can be proved And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.
O good gray head which all men knew,
O voice from which their omens all men ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE
drew, OF WELLINGTON
O iron nerve to true occasion true,
O fallen at length that tower of strength I
Which stood four-square to all the winds BURY the Great Duke
that blew ! With an empire's lamentation;
Such was he whom we deplore. Let us bury the Great Duke
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. To the noise of the mourning of a mighty The great World-victor's victor will be nation;
seen no more.
All is over and done,
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son. Where shall we lay the man whom we
Let the bell be toll’d. deplore?
Render thanks to the Giver, Here, in streaming London's central roar.
And render him to the mould. Let the sound of those he wrought for,
Under the cross of gold And the feet of those he fought for,
That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest for ever
Let the bell be tollid,
The towering car, the sable steeds.
Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, This is he that far away
Against the myriads of Assaye
Clash'd with his fiery few and won;
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
Where he greatly stood at bay,
Whence he issued forth anew,
Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
Follow'd up in valley and glen In that dread sound to the great name
With blare of bugle, clamour of men, Which he has worn so pure of blame,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms, In praise and in dispraise the same, And England pouring on her foes, A man of well-attemper'd frame.
Such a war had such a close. O civic muse, to such a name,
Again their ravening eagle rose To such a name for ages long,
In anger, wheeld on Europe-shadowing To such a name,
wings, Preserve a broad approach of fame, And barking for the thrones of kings; And ever-echoing avenues of song! Till one that sought but Duty's iron
On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler VI
down; “Who is he that cometh, like an hon- A day of onsets of despair ! our'd guest,
Dash'd on every rocky square, With banner and with music, with sol- Their surging charges foam’d themselves dier and with priest,
away; With a nation weeping, and breaking Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; on my rest?”
Thro' the long-tormented air Mighty Seaman, this is he
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, Was great by land as thou by sea.
And down we swept and charged and Thine island loves thee well, thou famous
So great a soldier taught us there The greatest sailor since our world be- What long-enduring hearts could do gan.
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, To thee the greatest soldier comes; And pure as he from taint of craven guile, For this is he
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,
Touch a spirit among things divine,
If love of country move thee there at all. And worthy to be laid by thee;
Be glad, because his bones are laid by For this is England's greatest son,
thine! He that gain'd a hundred fights,
And thro' the centuries let a people's Nor ever lost an English gun;
In full acclaim,
For ever; and whatever tempests lour A people's voice,
For ever silent; even if they broke The proof and echo of all human fame, In thunder, silent; yet remember all A people's voice, when they rejoice
He spoke among you, and the Man who At civic revel and pomp and game,
spoke; Attest their great commander's claim Who never sold the truth to serve the With honour, honour, honour, honour to
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; Eternal honour to his name.
Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow
Thro' either babbling world of high and VII
Whose life was work, whose language A people's voice! we are a people yet.
rife Tho' all men else their nobler dreams With rugged maxims hewn from life; forget,
Who never spoke against a foe; Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Whose eighty winters freeze with one Powers,
rebuke Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly All great self-seekers trampling on the set
right. His Briton in blown seas and storming Truth-teller was our England's Alfred showers,
named ; We have a voice with which to pay the Truth-lover was our English Duke! debt
Whatever record leap to light Of boundless love and reverence and He never shall be shamed.
regret To those great men who fought, and kept
VIII it ours. And keep it ours, O God, from brute Lo! the leader in these glorious wars control!
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, Follow'd by the brave of other lands, the soul
He, on whom from both her open hands Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, Lavish Honour shower'd all her stars, And save the one true seed of freedom And affluent Fortune emptied all her
horn. Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, Yea, let all good things await That sober freedom out of which there Him who cares not to be great springs
But as he saves or serves the state. Our loyal passion for our temperate Not once or twice in our rough islandkings!
story For, saving that, ye help to save man- The path of duty was the way to glory. kind
He that walks it, only thirsting Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, For the right, and learns to deaden And drill the raw world for the march Love of self, before his journey closes, of mind.
He shall find the stubborn thistle burstTill crowds at length be sane and crowns ing
Into glossy purples, which out-redden But wink no more in slothful overtrust. All voluptuous garden-roses. Remember him who led your hosts; Not once or twice in our fair island-story He bade you guard the sacred coasts. The path of duty was the way to glory. Your cannons moulder on the seaward He, that ever following her commands, wall;
On with toil of heart and knees and His voice is silent in your council-hall
Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has Until we doubt not that for one so true
There must be other nobler work to do His path upward, and prevail’d,
Than when he fought at Waterloo, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty And Victor he must ever be. scaled
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill Are close upon the shining table-lands And break the shore, and evermore To which our God Himself is moon and Make and break, and work their will, sun.
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads Such was he: his work is done.
roll But while the races of mankind endure Round us, each with different powers, Let his great example stand
And other forms of life than ours, Colossal, seen of every land,
What know we greater than the soul? And keep the soldier firm, the statesman Our God and Godlike men we build our pure;
trust. Till in all lands and thro' all human storyHush, the Dead March wails in the The path of duty be the way to glory.
people's ears; And let the land whose hearths he saved The dark crowd moves, and there are from shame
sobs and tears; For many and many an age proclaim The black earth yawns; the mortal disAt civic revel and pomp and game,
appears; And when the long-illumined cities flame, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, He is gone who seem'd so great. With honour, honour, honour, honour to Gone, but nothing can bereave him him,
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave Peace, his triumph will be sung
him. By some yet unmoulded tongue
Speak no more of his renown,
And in the vast cathedral leave him,
For the black bat, night, has flown, More than is of man's degree
Come into the garden, Maud, Must be with us, watching here
I am here at the gate alone; At this, our great solemnity.
And the woodbine spices are wafted Whom we see not we revere;
abroad, We revere, and we refrain
And the musk of the rose is blown. From talk of battles loud and vain, And brawling memories all too free For a breeze of morning moves, For such a wise humility
And the planet of love is on high, As befits a solemn fane:
Beginning to faint in the light that she We revere, and while we hear
loves The tides of Music's golden sea
On a bed of daffodil sky, Setting toward eternity,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves, Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of The flute, violin, bassoon ;
girls, All night has the casement jessamine Come hither, the dances are done, stirr'd
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, To the dancers dancing in tune;
Queen lily and rose in one; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, Shine out, little head, sunning over with And a hush with the setting moon.
To the flowers, and be their sun. I said to the lily, “There is but one,
With whom she has heart to be gay. There has fallen a splendid tear When will the dancers leave her alone? From the passion-flower at the gate,
She is weary of dance and play." She is coming, my dove, my dear; Now half to the setting moon are gone, She is coming, my life, my fate. And half to the rising day;
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away.
And the white rose weeps, “She is
late;" I said to the rose, “The brief night goes The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;” In babble and revel and wine.
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
My heart would hear her and beat, “For ever and ever, mine."
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat, And the soul of the rose went into my
Had I lain for a century dead, blood,
Would start and tremble under her As the music clash'd in the Hall;
feet, And long by the garden lake I stood,
And blossom in purple and red.
From the meadow your walks have left
In violets blue as your eyes,
And the valleys of Paradise.
WHEER 'asta bean saw long and mea
liggin' 'ere aloan?
Doctor's abean an'agoan;
I beant a fool;
to break my rule.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says
what's nawways true; Naw soort o'koind o use to saay the
things that a do. I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight
sin' I bean 'ere. An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight
for foorty year.