Whole in himself, a common good.

Mourn for the man of amplest influence,
Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common-sense,
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
drew,

O iron nerve to true occasion true,
O fallen at length that tower of strength
Which stood four-square to all the winds
that blew!

Such was he whom we deplore.

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er.
The great World-victor's victor will be

seen no more.

V

All is over and done,
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.
Let the bell be toll'd.
Render thanks to the Giver,
And render him to the mould.
Under the cross of gold
That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest for ever
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll'd,

And a reverent people behold
The towering car, the sable steeds.

Dark in its funeral fold.

Let the bell be toll'd,

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd; And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd

Thro' the dome of the golden cross;
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss;
He knew their voices of old.
For many a time in many a clime
His captain's-ear has heard them boom
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom.
When he with those deep voices wrought,
Guarding realms and kings from shame,
With those deep voices our dead captain
taught

The tyrant, and asserts his claim

In that dread sound to the great name
Which he has worn so pure of blame,
In praise and in dispraise the same,
A man of well-attemper'd frame.
O civic muse, to such a name,
To such a name for ages long,
To such a name,

Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-echoing avenues of song!

VI

"Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,

With banner and with music, with sol

dier and with priest,

Against the myriads of Assaye
Clash'd with his fiery few and won;
And underneath another sun,
Warring on a later day,
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works, the vast designs
Of his labour'd rampart-lines,
Where he greatly stood at bay,
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew,
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms,
Back to France with countless blows,
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamour of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes,
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings,

And barking for the thrones of kings;
Till one that sought but Duty's iron

crown

On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down;

A day of onsets of despair!

Dash'd on every rocky square,

Their surging charges foam'd themselves

away;

on my rest?"

Mighty Seaman, this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea.

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous

man,

The greatest sailor since our world be

gan.

Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
To thee the greatest soldier comes;
For this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea.
His foes were thine; he kept us free;
O, give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee;
For this is England's greatest son,
He that gain'd a hundred fights,
Nor ever lost an English gun;

Thro' the long-tormented air

Heaven flash'd 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-earthquake, Waterloo!
Mighty Seaman, tender and true,

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 aught of things that here befall
Touch a spirit among things divine,
If love of country move thee there at all.
Be glad, because his bones are laid by
thine!

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice

For ever; and whatever tempests lour
For ever silent; even if they broke
In thunder, silent; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man who
spoke ;

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,

Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow Thro' either babbling world of high and low;

Whose life was work, whose language rife

With rugged maxims hewn from life;
Who never spoke against a foe;
Whose eighty winters freeze with one
rebuke

All great self-seekers trampling on the right.

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 hands
Lavish Honour shower'd all her stars,
And affluent Fortune emptied all her
horn.

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 journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle burst-
ing

Into glossy purples, which out-redden.
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 prevail'd,
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 and 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 honour, honour, honour, honour to him,

Eternal honour 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

Late the little children clung.

O peace, it is a day of pain

For one upon whose hand and heart and

brain

Until we doubt not that for one so true
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will,
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads
roll

Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul?
Our 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;

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;

He is gone who seem'd so great.
Gone, but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,
And that he wears a truer crown

Than any wreath that man can weave

him.

Speak no more of his renown,

Lay your earthly fancies down,

And in the vast cathedral leave him, God accept him, Christ receive him!

FROM MAUD

XXII

Ours the pain, be his the gain!
More than is of man's degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.
Whom we see not we revere;
We revere, and we refrain

From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility

As befits a solemn fane:
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,

For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

And the musk of the rose is blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves

On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.