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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.
Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
I have thee still, and I rejoice;

IV
I prosper, circled with thy voice;
I shall not lose thee tho' I die.

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

lute, pure,

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,
With faith that comes of self-control, Rich in saving common-sense,

The truths that never can be proved And, as the greatest only are,
Until we close with all we loved,

In his simplicity sublime.
And all we flow from, soul in soul.

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.
Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

All is over and done,
II

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,
Echo round his bones for evermore.

There he shall rest for ever
Among the wise and the bold.

Let the bell be tollid,
Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, And a reverent people behold
As fits an universal woe,

The towering car, the sable steeds.

V

III

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, This is he that far away
Dark in its funeral fold.

Against the myriads of Assaye
Let the bell be toll’d,

Clash'd with his fiery few and won;
And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd; And underneath another sun,
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem Warring on a later day,
roll'd

Round affrighted Lisbon drew
Thro' the dome of the golden cross; The treble works, the vast designs
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; Of his labour'd rampart-lines,
He knew their voices of old.

Where he greatly stood at bay,
For many a time in many a clime

Whence he issued forth anew,
His captain's-ear has heard them boom And ever great and greater grew,
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom. Beating from the wasted vines
When he with those deep voices wrought, Back to France her banded swarms,
Guarding realms and kings from shame, Back to France with countless blows,
With those deep voices our dead captain Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
taught

Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
The tyrant, and asserts his claim

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

overthrew. man,

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,
Was great by land as thou by sea.

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,
His foes were thine; he kept us free; If aught of things that here befall
O, give him welcome, this is he

Touch a spirit among things divine,
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,

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;

voice

crown

low;

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

hour, him,

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

hands,

Sown

be just.

won

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
Eternal honour to his name.

Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,

And that he wears a truer crown
IX

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,
Far on in summers that we shall not see. Lay your earthly fancies down,
Peace, it is a day of pain

And in the vast cathedral leave him,
For one about whose patriarchal knee God accept him, Christ receive him!
Late the little children clung.
O peace, it is a day of pain

FROM MAUD
For one upon whose hand and heart and
brain

XXII
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. Come into the garden, Maud,
Ours the pain, be his the gain!

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.

а

a

near;

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.

curls,

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."
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the Were it ever so airy a tread,
rose,

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.
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to
the wood,

NORTHERN FARMER
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

OLD STYLE

From the meadow your walks have left

So sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet

And the valleys of Paradise.

WHEER 'asta bean saw long and mea

liggin' 'ere aloan?
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse; whoy,

Doctor's abean an'agoan;
Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale, but

I beant a fool;
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin'

to break my rule.

a

The slender acacia would not shake

One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your

sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,

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.

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