The treble works, the vast designs Of 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 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, clamour 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 throne 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 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 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 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. 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 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 rumour 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.
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 Honour 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 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 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 honour, honour, honour, honour to him, Eternal honour to his name.
Peace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmoulded 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 bawling 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 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 him Of 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. Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him,
God accept him, Christ receive him!
FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL
FLOWER in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower-but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is.
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