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.
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.

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 mold.
Under the cross of gold

That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest forever
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll'd,

And a reverent people behold

The 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'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 honor'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 he

Was 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 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;
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
Beyond 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, 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;

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew;
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
In full acclaim,

A people's voice,

The proof and echo o. 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 isl'd 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 con

trol!

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.
Remember him who led your hosts;

He bade you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons molder on the seaward wall;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
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 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 foe;

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 Duke!
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.

VIII

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 Honor 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
That 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 bursting
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 honor, honor, honor, honor to him,
Eternal honor to his name.

IX

Peace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmolded 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

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 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,
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?
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.
Hush, the Dead March wails in the peo-
ple'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,

TO THE QUEEN

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!

HANDS ALL ROUND

ALFRED TENNYSON

(1852)

FIRST pledge our Queen this solemn night, Then drink to England, every guest; That man's the best Cosmopolite

Who loves his native country best. May freedom's oak for ever live

With stronger life from day to day;
That man's the true Conservative

Who lops the molder'd branch away.
Hands all round!

God the traitor's hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,

And the great name of England, round and round.

To all the loyal hearts who long

To keep our English Empire whole! To all our noble sons, the strong New England of the Southern Pole! To England under Indian skies,

To those dark millions of her realm! To Canada whom we love and prize, Whatever statesman hold the helm.

Hands all round!

God the traitor's hope confound!

To this great name of England drink, my friends,

And all her glorious empire, round and round.

To all our statesmen so they be

True leaders of the land's desire! To both our Houses, may they see Beyond the borough and the shire! We sail'd wherever ship could sail,

We founded many a mighty state; Pray God our greatness may not fail Thro' craven fears of being great! Hands all round!

God the traitor's hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,

And the great name of England, round and round!

ALFRED TENNYSON

[Epilogue, Idylls of the King]

O loyal to the royal in thyself,
And loyal to thy land, as this to thee-
Bear witness, that rememberable day,
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the
Prince

Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life again

From halfway down the shadow of the grave,

Past with thee thro' thy people and their love,

And London roll'd one tide of joy thro' all Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of

man

And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime

Thunderless lightnings striking under sea From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard

A strain to shame us "keep you to yourselves;

So loyal is too costly! friends-your love Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go." Is this the tone of empire? here the faith That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont

Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? What shock has fool'd her since, that she should speak

So feebly? wealthier-wealthier-hour by hour!

The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas?

There rang her voice, when the full city peal'd

Thee and thy Prince! The loyal to their

crown

Are loyal to their own far sons, who love Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes For ever-broadening England, and her

throne

In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, That knows not her own greatness: if she knows

And dreads it we are fall'n.-But thou, my
Queen,

Not for itself, but thro' thy living love
For one to whom I made it o'er his grave

Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale,
New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with

Soul

Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost,

Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak,

And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him

Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's,

one

Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time That hover'd between war and wantonness, And crownings and dethronements: take withal

Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven

Will blow the tempest in the distance back From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark,

Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm,
Waverings of every vane with every wind,
And wordy trucklings to the transient hour,
And fierce or careless looseners of the faith,
And Softness breeding scorn of simple life,
Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold,
Or Labor, with a groan and not a voice,
Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n from
France,

And that which knows, but careful for itself,

And that which knows not, ruling that which

knows

To its own harm: the goal of this great world

Lies beyond sight: yet-if our slowly-grown And crown'd Republic's crowning commonsense,

That saved her many times, not fail-their fears

Are morning shadows huger than the shapes That cast them, not those gloomier which forego

The darkness of that battle in the West, Where all of high and holy dies away. (1873)

A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER (1852)
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

Push hard across the sand,

For the salt wind gathers breath; Shoulder and wrist and hand, Push hard as the push of death.

The wind is as iron that rings,

The foam-heads loosen and flee;

It swells and welters and swings, The pulse of the tide of the sea.

And up on the yellow cliff

The long corn flickers and shakes; Push, for the wind holds stiff,

And the gunwale dips and rakes.

Good hap to the fresh fierce weather, The quiver and beat of the sea! While three men hold together

The kingdoms are less by three.

Out to the sea with her there,

Out with her over the sand,

Let the kings keep the earth for their share! We have done with the sharers of land.

They have tied the world in a tether,

They have bought over God with a fee; While three men hold together,

The kingdoms are less by three.

We have done with the kisses that sting,
The thief's mouth red from the feast,
The blood on the hands of the king,
And the lie at the lips of the priest.

Will they tie the winds in a tether,

Put a bit in the jaws of the sea? While three men hold together,

The kingdoms are less by three.

Let our flag run out straight in the wind! The old red shall be floated again

When the ranks that are thin shall be thinned,

When the names that were twenty are

ten;

When the devil's riddle is mastered

And the galley-bench creaks with a Pope, We shall see Buonaparte the bastard

Kick heels with his throat in a rope.

While the shepherd sets wolves on his sheep
And the emperor halters his kine,
While Shame is a watchman asleep
And Faith is a keeper of swine.

Let the wind shake our flag like a feather, Like the plumes of the foam of the sea! While three men hold together,

The kingdoms are less by three.

All the world has its burdens to bear,

From Cayenne to the Austrian whips;