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Full cold my greeting was and dry :

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; I saw with half-uncouscious eye

She wore the colors I approved.

3. She took the little ivory chest,

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest,

And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings,

My gifts, when gifts of mine could please ; As looks a father on the things

or his dead son, I look'd on these.

Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the Past.
No more in soldier fashion will he greet
With lifted hand the gazer in the street.
O friends, our chief state-oracle is dead:
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 fallin 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.

She told me all her friends had said ;

I raged against the public liar; She talk'd as if her love were dead,

But in my words were seeds of fire. “No more of love: your sex is known:

I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone,

The woman cannot be believed.

5. "Thro' glander, meanest spawn of liell

All is over and done: (And women's slander is the worst),

Render thanks to the Giver,
And you, whom once I lov'd so well,

England, for thy son.
Thro' you, my life will be accurst."

Let the bell be toll'd.
I spoke with heart, and heat and foree,

Render thauks to the Giver,
I shook her breast with vague alarms- And render him to the monld.
Like torrents from a mountain source

Under the cross of gold
We rush'd into each other's arms.

That shines over city aud river,

There he shall rest forever 6.

Among the wise and the bold.

Let the bell be toll'd:
We parted: sweetly gleamid the stars,

And a reverent people behold
And sweet the vapor-braided blue,

The towering car, the sable steeds:
Low breezes faun'd the belfry bars,

Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds,
As homeward by the church I drew.

Dark in its funeral fold.
The very graves appear'd to smile,

Let the bell be tolled :
So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells;

And a deeper knell in the heart be knollid; “Dark porch," I said, “and silent aisle,

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'a
There comes a sound of marriage bells.”

Thro' the dome of the golden croes ;
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
ÚDE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE Bellowing victory, bellowing doom ;

When he with those deep voices wronght,

Guarding realms and kings from shame; 1.

With those deep voices our dead captain taught BURY the Great Duke

The tyrant, and asserts his claim With an empire's lamentation,

In that dread sound to the great name, Let us bury the Great Duke

Which he bas worn so pure of blame, To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, lu praise and in dispraise the same, Mourning when their leaders fall,

A man of well-attemper'd frame, Warriors carry the warrior's pall,

O civic muse, to such a name, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

To such a name for ages long,

To such a name, 2.

Preserve a broad approach of fame,

And ever-ringing avenues of song.
Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ?
Here, in streaming London's central roar.

6. Let the sound of those he wrought for,

Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his boues forevermore,

With banner and with music, with soldier and with


With a nation weeping, and breaking on my resti 3.

Mighty seaman, this is he Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,

Was great by land as thou by sea. As fits an universal woe,

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, Let the long long procession go,

The greatest sailor since our world began, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,

Now, to the roll of muffled drums, And let the mournful martial music blow;

To thee the greatest soldier comes : The last great Englishıman is low.

For this is he

For, eaving that, ye help to save mankind
Till pullic wrong be crumbled into dust,
And drill the raw world for the march of mind,
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns juste
But wink no more in slothful overtrust.
Remember him who led your hosts;
He bade you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
Forever ; aud whatever tempests lower
Forever 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 rumor 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 foo:
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke
All great self-seekers trampling on the right:
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named:
Truth-lover was our English Luke ,
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.

Was great by land as thou by sea;
His toes 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 away
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 labor'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
Past the Pyrenean pines,
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamor 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, wheeld on Europe-shadowing wings,
And barking for the thrones of kings;
Tir. one that sought but Duty's irou crown
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler dowu ;
A day of onsets of despair!
Dash'd on every rocky square
Their surging charges foam'd themselves away:
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew;
Thro the long-tormented air
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray.
And down we swept and charged aud overthrew.
So great a soldier taught us there,
What long-enduring hearts could do
In that world's-earthquake, Waterloo !
Mighty seaman, tender and true,
And pure as he from taicī 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
In full acclaim,
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,
Attest their great commander's claim
With honor, honor, honor to him,
Eternal honor to his name.

8. 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 hand: Lavish IIonor shower'd all her stars, Aud afluent Fortune emptied all her hurn. 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 jouruey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden 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 prevailid, 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 aud 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 honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name.

7. A people's voice! we are a people yet. Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers; Thank IIim who isled us here, and roughly set His Saxon in blowy seas and storming showers, We have a voice, with which to pay the debt or boundless love and reverence and regret To those great men who fought, and kept it onrs. And keep it ours, O God, from brute control; O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul of Europe, keep our noble England whole, And save the one true seed of freedom sown Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, That sober freedom ont of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings;

9. Peace, his triumph will be eng By some yet nnmoulded tongue Far on in summers that we shall not see. Peace, it is a day of pain For one abont whose patriarchal knee Late the little children clung: O peace, it is a day of pain

Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Not the clipt palm of which they boost;

But distant color, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citade! on the coast,

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olives green ;

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,

Where oleanders flush'd the bed of silent torrents, gravel-spread ;

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten or ice, far up on a mountain head.

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, Those niched shapes of noble mould,

A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old.

For one upon whose hand and heart and brain
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung.
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 cf battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility
As betits 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,
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' worla 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 ?
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 ;

nothing can bereave him
Or 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.
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.


At Florence too what golder hours,
In those long galleries, were ours;

What drives abont the fresh Cascino, Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers.

In bright vignettes, and each complete, of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, Toro' cypress avenues, at our feet. But when we crost the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain:

of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles,

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.

O Milan, O the chanting quires,
The giant windows' blazon'd fires,

The height, the space, the gloom, the gioryt A monat of marble, a hundred spires !

I climb'd the roofs at break of day; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.

I "tood among the silent statnes, And statued pinnacles, mute as they.

How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, Was Monte Rosa, hanging there

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys And snowy dells in a golden air.

Remember how we came at last
To Como; shower and storm and blast

Had wlown the lake beyond his limit, And all was flooded ; and how we past


WRITTEN AT EDINBURGII. O Love, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine ;

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. What Roman strength Turbia show'd In ruin, by the mountain road;

How like a gem, beneath, the city
of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.
How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell

To meet the sun and sunny waters,
That only heaved with a summer swell.
What slender campanili grew
By bays, the peacock's neck in hne;

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches
A milky-beil'd amaryllis blew.
How young Columbus seem'd to rove,
Yet present in his natal grove,

Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove, Now pacing mute by ocean's rim; Till, in a narrow street and dim,

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and loyally drank to him.

From Como, when the light was gray, And in my head, for half the day,

The rich Virgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way,

Like ballad-burthen music, kept,
As on the Lariano crept

To that fair port below the castle or Queen Theodolind, where we slep! ;

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake

A cypress in the moonlight shake, The moonlight touching o'er a terrace One tall Agavè above the lake.

What more! we took onr last adien,
And up the snowy Splugen drew,

But ere we reach'd the highest summit I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you.


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But ill for him who, bettering not with time,
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,
Aud ever weaker grows thro' acted crinie,
Or seeming-genial venial fault,
Recurring and suggesting still!
He seems as one whose footsteps
Toiling in immeasurable sand,
And o'er a weary, sultry land,
Far beneath a blazing vault,
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill,
The city sparkles like a grain of salt.


For, being of that honest few,
Who give the Fiend himself his due,

Should eighty thousand college councils
Thunder “Anathema," friend, at you:
Shonld all our churchmen foam in spite
At you, so careful of the right,

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown

All round a careless-order'd garden
Close to the ridge of a noble down).
You'll have no scandal while you dine,
But honest talk and wholesome wine,

And only hear the magpie gossip
Garrulous under a roof of pine:
For groves of pine on either hand,
To break the blast of winter, stand;

And further on, the hoary Channel
Tumbles a breaker ou chalk and sand;

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade ! “Charge for the guns !" he said. Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.


Where, if below the milky steep
Some ship of battle slowly creep,

And on thro' zones of light and shadow
Gliminer away to the lonely deep,
We might discuss the Northern sin
Which made a selfish war begin;

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win:

“Forward, the Light Brigade !" Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier kuew

Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die, Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Or whether war's avenging rod
Shall lash all Europe into blood;

Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God;

Cannon to right of them,
Cannou to left of them,
Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd ,
Storm'd at with shot and sheil,
Boldiy they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor :

How gain in life. os life advances, Valor and charity more and more.

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And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my own ideal knight, “Who reverenced his conscience as his king;

THE COMING OF ARTHUR. Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; LEONOGRAN, the King of Cameliard, Who spoke no slander, no, nor listend to it; Hnd one fair daughter, and none other child; Who loved one only and who clave to her-" And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, Her-over all whose realms to their last isle, Guinevere, and in her his one delight. Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,

For many a petty king ere Arthur came Darkening the world. We have lost bim: he is gone: Riled in this isle, avd ever waging war We know him now: all narrow jealousies

Each upon other, wasted all the land; Are silent; and we see him as he moved,

And still from time to time the heathen lost How modest, kindly, all-accomplish’d, wise,

Swarm'd overseas, and barried what was left. With what sublime repression of himself,

And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, And in what limits, and how tenderly;

Wherein the beast was ever more avd more, Not swaying to this faction or to that;

But man was less and less, till Arthnr camne. Not making his high place the lawless perch For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, or wing'd ambitious, nor a vantage-ground

And after him King Uther funght and died, For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of years Bnt either fail'd to make the kingdom one. Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, And after these King Arthur for a space, Before a thousand peering littleuesses,

And thro' the puissance of his Table Round, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, Drew all their petty princedoms under him, And blackens every blot: for where is he,

Their king and head, and made a realm, and reign'da Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than bis?

And thng the land of Cameliard was waste, Or how shonld England dreaming of his sons Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, Hope more for these than some inheritance

Avd none or few to scare or chase the beast; or such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,

So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear Thou noble Father of her Kings to be,

Came night and day, and rooted in the fieids, Laborious for her people and her poor

And wallow'd in the gardens of the King. Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day

And ever and anon the wolf wonld sien] Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste

The children and devour, but now and then, To fruitful strises and rivalries of peace

Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam

To human sucklings; and the children, housed or letters, dear to Science, dear to Art,

In her foul den, there at their ment would growl, Dear to thy land and onrs, a Prince indeed,

And mock their foster-mother on fonr feet, Beyond all titles, and a household name,

Till, straighten'd, they grew np to wolf-like men, Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good.

Worse than the wolves. And King Leodograu

Groan'd for the Roman legions here again, Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure; And Cæsar's eagle: then his brother king, Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure,

Urien, assail'd him: last a heathen horde, Remembering all the beanty of that star

Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood, Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye made And on the spike that split the mother's heart One light together, but has past and leaves

Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed, The Crown a lonely splendor.

The knew not whither he should turn fur aid.

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