Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. II. 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. III. Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, · IV. 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 mute: Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, Whole in himself, a common good. O good gray head which all men knew, O voice from which their omens all men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore. Render thanks to the Giver, And a reverent people behold 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 He knew their voices of old. loss; For many a time in many a clime The tyrant, and asserts his claim Preserve a broad approach of fame, VI. Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest, With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, With a nation weeping, and breaking Mighty Seaman, this is he on my rest? Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou fa mous man, The great World-victor's victor will be Now, to the roll of muffled drums, The greatest sailor since our world began. seen no more. V. All is over and done : Render thanks to the Giver, To thee the greatest soldier comes; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea; For this is England's greatest son, Round affrighted Lisbon drew And barking for the thrones of kings; A day of onsets of despair! away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, And down we swept and charged and overthrew. So great a soldier taught us there, And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 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, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name. VII. 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 Him who isled us here, and roughly set His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, We have a voice, with which to pay the debt Of boundless love and reverence and regret To 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 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 out of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; For, saving that, ye help to save mankind Till 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. His voice is silent in your council-hall Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 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; Lo, the leader in these glorious wars The path of duty was the way to glory: Not once or twice in our fair island-story, won IX. Peace, his triumph will be sung For one about whose patriarchal knee O peace, it is a day of pain For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, trust. THE DAISY. WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH. O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine What Roman strength Turbia show'd How like a gem, beneath, the city To meet the sun and sunny waters, That only heaved with a summer swell. What slender campanili grew How young Columbus seem'd to rove, Now watching high on mountain And steering, now, from a purple cove, Now pacing mute by ocean's rim I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and loyally drank to him. Nor knew we well what pleased us most, 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 We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old. At Florence too what golden hours, In bright vignettes, and each complete, Or palace, how the city glitter'd, Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; And stern and sad (so rare the smiles O Milan, O the chanting quires, The height, the space, the gloom, the A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! I climb'd the roofs at break of day; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. I stood among the silent statues, And statued pinnacles, mute as they. How faintly-flushed, 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 Had blown the lake beyond his limit, And all was flooded; and how we past From Como, when the light was gray, And in my head, for half the day, The rich Virgilian rustic measure To that fair port below the castle The moonlight touching o'er a terrace One tall Agave above the lake. What more? we took our last adieu, And up the snowy Splugen drew, But ere we reach'd the highest summit I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. It told of England then to me, O love, we two shall go no longer So dear a life your arms enfold Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold, I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, This nursling of another sky Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by : And I forgot the clouded Forth, The bitter east, the misty summer Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, Perchance, to dream you still beside me, My fancy fled to the South again. TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. COME, when no graver cares employ, For, being of that honest few, Thunder "Anathema,” friend, at you; 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 You'll have no scandal while you dine, Where, if below the milky steep chances; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : Or whether war's avenging rod Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God; How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor; How gain in life, as life advances, Valor and charity more and more. Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet; But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet, Or later, pay one visit here, January, 1854. WILL. I. O WELL for him whose will is strong! He suffers, but he will not suffer long; He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong: For him nor moves the loud world's ran dom mock, Norall Calamity's hugest waves confound, In middle ocean meets the surging shock, II. But ill for him who, bettering not with And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime, Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, |