WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 18th November, 1852. 'VICTORY!' So once more the cry must be. In God's name; but by God's will, 'Victory!' Funeral, In the music round this pall, Solemn grief yields earth to earth; But what tones of solemn mirth In the pageant of new birth Rise and fall? For indeed, If our eyes were opened, Who shall say what escort floats Here, which breath nor gleam denotes,Fiery horses, chariots Fire-footed? Trumpeter, Even thy call he may not hear; Multitude, Hold your breath in reverent mood: This soul's labour shall be scann'd Cherubim, Lift ye not even now your hymn? Lo! once lent for human lack, Michael's sword is rendered back. Thrills not now the starry track, Seraphim? Gabriel, Since the gift of thine 'All hail!' Than the peace which this man wrought Be no word Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd. Say: "Twas thus in His decrees Who Himself, the Prince of Peace, For His harvest's high increase Sent a sword.' Veterans, He by whom the neck of France Countenance. Waterloo ! As the last grave must renew, Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain, So methinks upon thy plain Falls some presage in the rain, And O thou, Watching with an exile's brow In some new heart's English blood Emperor, Is this all thy work was for ?— Yea thy titles, yea thy name, In another's shame, to shame Bandied o'er? * Wellington, Thy great work is but begun. With quick seed his end is rife Whose long tale of conquering strife Shows no triumph like his life Lost and won. * Date of the Coup d'État: 2nd December, 1851. AN OLD SONG ENDED. 'How should I your true love know From another one?' 'By his cockle-hat and staff And his sandal-shoon.' 'And what signs have told you now That he hastens home?' 'Lo! the spring is nearly gone, 'How may I, when he shall ask, Tell him who lies there?' 'Nay, but leave my face unveiled And unbound my hair.' 'Can you say to me some word I shall say to him ?' 'Say I'm looking in his eyes Though my eyes are dim.' |