No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the Gods and men,
Who look'd all native to her place, and
yet

On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce

Sway'd to her from their orbits as they

moved,

And girdled her with music. Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind

Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high

Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall

He shall not blind his soul with clay.'

'But I,' Said Ida, tremulously, 'so all unlike— It seems you love to cheat yourself with words:

This mother is your model. I have heard

Of your strange doubts: they well might be: I seem

A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince;

You cannot love me.'

'Nay but thee,' I said, From yearlong poring on thy pictured

'What, if you drest it up poetically!' So pray'd the men, the women: I gave

The men required that I should give throughout

The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, With which we banter'd little Lilia first: The women- and perhaps they felt their power,

The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. This tine old world of ours is but a child Yet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it time

To learn its limbs: there is a hand that guides.'

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails,

And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood.

Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, Among six boys, head under head, and look'd

No little lily-handed Baronet he,
A great broad-shoulder'd genial English-

But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, Perchance upon the future man: the walls

Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd,

And gradually the powers of the night, That range above the region of the wind, Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up

Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds, Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens.

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph

From those rich silks, and home wellpleased we went.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

PUBLISHED IN 1852.

I.

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.

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,
As fits an universal woe,

Let the long long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about it
grow,

And let the mournful martial music blow; The last great Englishman is low.

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, reso

lute,

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 fall'n 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.

V.

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 for ever
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-temper'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 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;
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,