So sure of flight, which do not fly;
That set gaze never on the sky;

Those scriptured flanks it cannot see;
Its crown, a brow-contracting load;
Its planted feet which trust the sod:
(So grew the image as I trod :)
O Nineveh, was this thy God,-
Thine also, mighty Nineveh ?

WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL.

18th November, 1852.

'VICTORY!'

So once more the cry must be.
Duteous mourning we fulfil

In God's name; but by God's will,
Doubt not, the last word is still

'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 openèd,

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;
Long-known voice for ever past,
Till with one more trumpet-blast
God's assuring word at last
Reach his ear.

Multitude,

Hold your breath in reverent mood:

For while earth's whole kindred stand
Mute even thus on either hand,

This soul's labour shall be scann'd

And found good.

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 !'
Out of Heaven no time hath brought
Gift with fuller blessing fraught

Than the peace which this man wrought
Passing well.

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
Then was given unto your heel,
Timely sought, may lend as well
To your sons his terrible

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,
In the dew.

And O thou,

Watching with an exile's brow
Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood:-
Lo! the saving strength of God

In some new heart's English blood
Slumbers now.

Emperor,

Is this all thy work was for ?—
Thus to see thy self-sought aim,

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.