I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song

And then we met in wrath and wrong,
We met, but only meant to part.
Full cold my greeting was and dry;
She faintly smiled, she hardly moved
I saw with half-unconscious eye

She wore the colors I approved.
III.

She took the little ivory chest,

With half a sign she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest,

And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please,

As looks a father on the things

Of his dead son, I look'd on these.

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?

Here in streaming London's central

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

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-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 fa

mous man,

The greatest sailor since our world be gan.

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

Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,

That sober freedom out of which there

story,

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

Ilis 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 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 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 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 weavo
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.
1852.

THE DAISY.

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH. O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine

In lands of palm and southern pine

In lands of palm, of orange blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. What Roman strength Turbia show'd In ruin, by the mountain road;

How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.
How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell

To meet the sun and sunny waters.
That only heaved with a sunimer swell.
What slender campanili grew
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ;
Where, here and there, on sandy

beaches

A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew.
How young Columbus seem'd to rove,
Yet present in his natal grove,

Now watching high on mountain cornice,

And steering, now, from a purple cove,
Now pacing mute by ocean's rim
Till, in a narrow street and dim,

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto,
And drank, and loyally drank to him.
Nor knew we well what pleased us
most,

Not the clipt palm of which they boast;

But distant color, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citadel on the coast, Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olives green;

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; Or rosy blossen in hot ravine, Where oleanders flush'd the bed Of silent torrents, gravel-spread: