"So careful of the type?" but no. "Thou makest thine appeal to me: Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final lawTho' Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek'd against his creed— Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, No more? A monster then, a dream, O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil. DEAR friend, far off, my lost desire, Known and unknown, human, divine; Sweet human hand and lips and eye; Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; Strange friend, past, present, and to be; THY Voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; What art thou then? I cannot guess; I do not therefore love thee less. My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now; Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I have thee still, and I rejoice; O LIVING will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, With faith that comes of self-control, And all we flow from, soul in soul. [From IN MEMORIAM A. H. H.] ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON BURY the Great Duke With an empire's lamentation; Let us bury the Great Duke To 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. And the feet of those he fought for, Echo around his bones for evermore. Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, Let the long, long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Mourn for the man of amplest influence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 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 mould. 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; 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, With those deep voices our dead captain taught In that dread sound to the great name Preserve a broad approach of fame, And ever-echoing 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 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; Was great by land as thou by sea. Warring on a later day, Round affrighted Lisbon drew |