And should your greatness, and the care Then-while a sweeter music wakes, And thro' wild March the throstle calls, Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes Take, Madam, this poor book of song; And leave us rulers of your blood "Her court was pure; her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; "And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet "By shaping some august decree Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people's will, And compass'd by the inviolate sea." THE EAGLE FRAGMENT 1851. HE clasps the crag with crooked hands, The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 1851. COME NOT WHEN I AM DEAD COME not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover crv: But thou, go by. Foremost captain of his time, O good gray head which all men knew, drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fallen at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! Such was he whom we deplore. seen no more. All is over and done, Render thanks to the Giver, That shines over city and river, 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; 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 Preserve a broad approach of fame, 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 famous man, The greatest sailor since our world began. Now, to the roll of muffled drums, Was great by land as thou by sea. And barking for the thrones of kings; crown On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down; A day of onsets of despair! Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; Thro' the long-tormented air So great a soldier taught us there O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, And thro' the centuries let a people's voice In full acclaim, A people's voice, The proof and echo of all human fame, Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, And drill the raw world for the march of mind, Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 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: Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow Thro' either babbling world of high and low; Whose life was work, whose language rife With rugged maxims hewn from life; All great self-seekers trampling on the right. Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named; Truth-lover was our English Duke! VIII Lo! the leader in these glorious wars Yea, let all good things await The path of duty was the way to glory. Into glossy purples, which out-redden Not once or twice in our fair island-story The path of duty was the way to glory. 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 His 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 And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure; Till in all lands and thro' all human story For many and many an age proclaim Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, IX Peace, his triumph will be sung Far on in summers that we shall not see. 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! As befits a solemn fane: Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, And Victor he must ever be. Round us, each with different powers, 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.-- Speak no more of his renown, HANDS ALL ROUND 1852. |