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 influ ence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 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 fallen 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: That shines over city and river, And a reverent people behold Dark in its funeral fold. Let the bell be tolled: And a deeper knell in the heart be knolled; And the sound of the sorrowing anthem rolled Thro' the dome of the golden cross; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; He knew their voices of old. 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 Preserve a broad approach of fame, VI. Who is he that cometh, like an honored 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; Followed up in valley and glen 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; So great a soldier taught us there, What long-enduring hearts could do In that world-earthquake, Waterloo! Mighty Seaman, tender and true, And pure as he from taint of craven guile, O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If aught of things that here befall Touch a spirit among things divine, If love of country move thee there at all, Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 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; Speak no more of his renown, THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SILENCE augmenteth griefe, writing encreaseth rage, Staid are my thoughts, which loved and lost, the wonder of our age, Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enraged I write I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how. Hard hearted mindes relent, and Rigor's tears abound, And Envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found; Knowledge his light hath lost, Valor hath slaine her knight: Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight. Heart's ease and onely I, like paraleles run on, Whose equall length, keepe equall bredth and never meete in one, Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes' cell, Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so well. Farewel to you my hopes, my wonted waking dreames, Farewel sometime enjoyed joy, eclipsed are thy beams, Farewel selfe-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth, And farewel friendship's sacred league uniting minds of worth. |