XXVIII. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent! XXIX. Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song; And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard! ΧΧΧ. There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. XXXI. I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. XXXII. They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: The tree will wither long before it fall; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthral; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: XXXIII. Even as a broken mirror, which the glass The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, Such hours 'gainst years of life,-say, would he name threescore? XXXV. The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: They are enough; and if thy tale be true, Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's lips shall echo them, and say"Here, where the sword united nations drew, "Our countrymen were warring on that day!" And this is much, and all which will not pass away. XXXVI. There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit antithetically mixt One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixt, Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene! XXXVII. Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. XXXVIII. Oh, more or less than man—in high or low, However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. XXXIX. Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye;— When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. XL. Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. XLI. If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock; But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, Their admiration thy best weapon shone; The part of Philip's son was thine, not then. (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. XLII. But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire |