CONCLUSION. So closed our tale, of which I give you all The random scheme as wildly as it rose : The words are mostly mine; for when we ceased There came a minute's pause, and Walter said, 'I wish she had not yielded!' then to me, 'What, if you drest it up poetically!' So pray'd the men, the women: I gave assent : Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme of seven Together in one sheaf? What style could suit? The men required that I should give throughout The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, She flung it from her, thinking: last, she fixt A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 'You tell us what we are' who might have told, For she was cramm'd with theories out of books, But that there rose a shout: the gates were closed At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, To take their leave, about the garden rails. So I and some went out to these we climb'd The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw The happy valleys, half in light, and half Far-shadowing from the west, a land of peace; With which we banter'd little Lilia first: Gray halls alone among their massive The women-and perhaps they felt their power, For something in the ballads which they sang, Or in their silent influence as they sat, Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque, And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close They hated banter, wish'd for something real, A gallant fight, a noble princess—why Not make her true-heroic-true-sublime? Or all, they said, as earnest as the close? Which yet with such a framework scarce could be. Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, And yet to give the story as it rose, But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part In our dispute: the sequel of the tale Had touch'd her; and she sat, she pluck'd the grass, 'Look there, a garden!' said my college friend, The Tory member's elder son, 'and there! God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled-Some sense of duty, something of a faith, Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, Some patient force to change them when we will, Some civic manhood firm against the crowd But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat, Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, As fits an universal woe, Let the long long procession go, All is over and done : And a reverent people behold And let the sorrowing crowd about it Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, grow, And let the mournful martial music blow; The last great Englishman is low. IV. Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 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 Remembering all his greatness in the Thro' the dome of the golden cross; Past. No more in soldier fashion will he greet Whole in himself, a common good. And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; He knew their voices of old. A man of well-attemper'd frame. Preserve a broad approach of fame, VI. 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. Was great by land as thou by sea; With blare of bugle, clamour of men, Such a war had such a close. And barking for the thrones of kings; A day of onsets of despair! Their surging charges foam'd themselves away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; So great a soldier taught us there, And pure as he from taint of craven guile, And thro' the centuries let a people's voice A people's voice, The proof and echo of all human fame, Eternal honour 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, 220 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. Of Europe, keep our noble England And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. But wink no more in slothful overtrust. His voice is silent in your council-hall Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; Whose life was work, whose language rife All great self-seekers trampling on the right: Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named; Yea, let all good things await story, The path of duty was the way to glory : Not once or twice in our fair island-story, won His path upward, and prevail'd, scaled Are close upon the shining table-lands To which our God Himself is moon and sun. Such was he: his work is done. 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 Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, |