On the Death Of, the Duke of Wellington

Bury the Great DukeWith an empire's lamentation,Let us bury the Great DukeTo the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,Mourning when their leaders fall,Warriors carry the warrior's pall,And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?Here, in streaming London's central roar.Let the sound of those he wrought for,And the feet of those he fought for,Echo round his bones for evermore.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,As fits an universal woe,Let the long long procession go,And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,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.No more in soldier fashion will he greetWith lifted hand the gazer in the street.O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute:Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,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 fall'n at length that tower of strengthWhich 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.

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 goldThat shines over city and river,There he shall rest for everAmong the wise and the bold.Let the bell be toll'd:And a reverent people beholdThe towering car, the sable steeds:Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds,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'dThro' 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 climeHis captain's-ear has heard them boomBellowing victory, bellowing doom;When he with those deep voices wrought,Guarding realms and kings from shame;With those deep voices our dead captain taughtThe tyrant, and asserts his claimIn that dread sound to the great name,Which he has won 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-ringing avenues of song.

Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?Mighty seaman, this is heWas great by land as thou by sea.Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,The greatest sailor since our world began.Now, to the roll of muffled drums,To thee the greatest soldier comes;For this is heWas 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;This is he that far awayAgainst the myriads of AssayeClash'd with his fiery few and won;And underneath another sun,Warring on a later day,Round affrighted Lisbon drewThe treble works, the vast designsOf 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 vinesBack to France her banded swarms,Back to France with countless blows,Till o'er the hills her eagles flewPast the Pyrenean pines,Follow'd up in valley and glenWith blare of bugle, clamour of men,Roll of cannon and dash of arms,And England pouring on her foes.Such a war had such a close.Again their ravening eagle roseIn anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings,And barking for the thrones of kings;Till one that sought but Duty's iron crownOn that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down;A day of onsets of despair!Dash'd on every rocky squareTheir surging charges foam'd themselves away;Last, the Prussian trumpet blew;Thro' the long-tormented airHeaven 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 doIn that world's-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 befallTouch 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 voiceIn full acclaim,A people's voice,The proof and echo of all human fame,A people's voice, when they rejoiceAt civic revel and pomp and game,Attest their great commander's claimWith honour, honour, honour, honour to him,Eternal honour to his name.

A people's voice! we are a people yet.Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forgetConfused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers;Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly setHis Saxon in blown seas and storming showers,We have a voice, with which to pay the debtOf boundless love and reverence and regretTo those great men who fought, and kept it ours.And keep it ours, O God, from brute control;O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soulOf Europe, keep our noble England whole,And save the one true seed of freedom sownBetwixt a people and their ancient throne,That sober freedom out of which there springsOur loyal passion for our temperate kings;For, saving that, ye help to save mankindTill public wrong be crumbled into dust,And drill the raw world for the march of mind,Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.But wink no more in slothful overtrust.Remember him who led your hosts;He bad you guard the sacred coasts.Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;His voice is silent in your council-hallFor ever; and whatever tempests lourFor ever silent; even if they brokeIn thunder, silent; yet remember allHe 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 flowThro' either babbling world of high and low;Whose life was work, whose language rifeWith rugged maxims hewn from life;Who never spoke against a foe;Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebukeAll great self-seekers trampling on the right:Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;Truth-lover was our English Duke;Whatever record leap to lightHe never shall be shamed.

Lo, the leader in these glorious warsNow to glorious burial slowly borne,Followed by the brave of other lands,He, on whom from both her open handsLavish Honour showered all her stars,And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.Yea, let all good things awaitHim 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 thirstingFor the right, and learns to deadenLove of self, before his journey closes,He shall find the stubborn thistle burstingInto glossy purples, which outreddenAll 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 wonHis path upward, and prevail'd,Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaledAre close upon the shining table-landsTo 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 standColossal, seen of every land,And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure;Till in all lands and thro' all human storyThe path of duty be the way to glory:And let the land whose hearths he saved from shameFor many and many an age proclaimAt 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.

Peace, his triumph will be sungBy some yet unmoulded tongueFar on in summers that we shall not see:Peace, it is a day of painFor one about whose patriarchal kneeLate the little children clung:O peace, it is a day of painFor one, upon whose hand and heart and brainOnce the weight and fate of Europe hung.Ours the pain, be his the gain!More than is of man's degreeMust be with us, watching hereAt this, our great solemnity.Whom we see not we revere,We revere, and we refrainFrom talk of battles loud and vain,And brawling memories all too freeFor such a wise humilityAs befits a solemn fane:We revere, and while we hearThe tides of Music's golden seaSetting toward eternity,Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,Until we doubt not that for one so trueThere must be other nobler work to doThan when he fought at Waterloo,And Victor he must ever be.For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hillAnd break the shore, and evermoreMake and break, and work their will;Tho' world on world in myriad myriads rollRound us, each with different powers,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;Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;He is gone who seem'd so great.--Gone; but nothing can bereave himOf the force he made his ownBeing here, and we believe himSomething far advanced in State,And that he wears a truer crownThan any wreath that man can weave him.But speak no more of his renown,Lay your earthly fancies down,And in the vast cathedral leave him.God accept him, Christ receive him.