A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, Imagined more than seen, the skirts of


Which yet with such a framework scarce

could be. Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, Betwixt the mockers and the realists : And I, betwixt them both, to please them

both, And yet to give the story as it rose, I moved as in a strange diagonal, And maybe neither pleased myself nor


But Lilia pleased me, for she took no

part In our dispute : the sequel of the tale Had touch'd her; and she sat, she pluck'd

the grass, She flung it from her, thinking : last, she

fixt A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, *You tell us what we are 'who might

have told, For she was cramm'd with theories out of

books, But that there rose a shout : the gates

were closed At sunset, and the crowd were swarming

now, To take their leave, about the garden rails.

* Look there, a garden !' said my

college friend, The Tory member's elder son, and there! God bless the narrow sea which keeps her

off, And keeps our Britain, whole within her

self, A nation yet, the rulers and the ruledSome sense of duty, something of a faith, Some reverence for the laws ourselves

have made, Some patient force to change them when

we will, Some civic manhood firm against the

crowd But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden

heat, The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, The king is scared, the soldier will not

fight, The little boys begin to shoot and stab, A kingdom topples over with a shriek Like an old woman, and down rolls the

world In mock heroics stranger than our own ; Revolts, republics, revolutions, most No graver than a schoolboys' barring out ; Too comic for the solemn things they are, Too solemn for the comic touches in them, Like our wild Princess with as wise a

dream As some of theirs--God bless the narrow

seas ! I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad.'

So I and some went out to these : we

climb'd The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw The happy valleys, half in light, and half Far-shadowing from the west, a land of

peace ; Gray halls alone among their massive

groves; Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic

tower Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of

wheat ; The shimmering glimpses of a stream;

* Have patience,' I replied, “ourselves

are full Of social wrong; and maybe wildest Are but the needful preludes of the truth: For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, The sport half-science, fill me with a

the seas;


faith, This fine old world of ours is but a child Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give it

Premier or king! Why should not these

great Sirs Give up their parks some dozen times a year To let the people breathe? So thrice

they cried, I likewise, and in groups they stream'd



To learn its limbs : there is a hand that


In such discourse we gain'd the garden

rails, And there we saw Sir Walter where he

stood, Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, Among six boys, head under head, and

look'd No little lily-handed Baronet he, A great broad-shoulder'd genial English

man, A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, A raiser of huge melons and of pine, A patron of some thirty charities, A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none; Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn; Now shaking hands with him, now him,

of those That stood the nearest —now address'd to

speechWho spoke few words and pithy, such as

closed Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the

But we went back to the Abbey, and

sat on, So much the gathering darkness charmd :

we sat But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, Perchance upon the future man : the walls Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and

owls whoop'd, And gradually the powers of the night, That range above the region of the wind, Deepening the courts of twilight broke

them up Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds, Beyond all thought into the Heaven of


Last little Lilia, rising quietly, Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir

Ralph From those rich silks, and home well

pleased we went.



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Bury the Great Duke

With an empire's lamentation,
Let us bury the Great Duke
To the noise of the mourning of a

mighty nation,
Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

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.

Where shall we lay the man whom we

deplore ? Here, in streaming London's central roar. Let the sound of those he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bones for evermore.

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Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Remembering all his greatness in the

Past. No more in soldier fashion will he greet With lifted hand the gazer in the street. O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, The statesman-warrior, moderate, reso

lute, Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime, Our greatest yet with least pretence, Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime. 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 fall’n at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds

that blew !

All is over and done : Render thanks to the Giver, England, for thy son. Let the bell be toll’d. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, There he shall rest for ever Among the wise and the bold. Let the bell be toll'd : 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 tollid : And a deeper knell in the heart be

knollid; And the sound of the sorrowing anthem

rollid Thro' the dome of the golden cross; And the volleying cannon thunder his

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

The tyrant, and asserts his claim
In that dread sound to the great name,
Which he has worn so pure of blame,
In praise and in dispraise the same,
A man of well-attemper'd frame.
O civic muse, to such a name,

To such a name for ages long,
To such a name,
Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-echoing avenues of song.



Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd

guest, With banner and with music, with soldier

and with priest, With a nation weeping, and breaking on

my rest? Mighty Seanian, 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, To thee the greatest soldier comes ; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea ; His foes were thine ; he kept us free; O give him welcome, this is he Worthy of our gorgeous rites, And worthy to be laid by thee ; For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, Nor ever lost an English gun ; This is he that far away Against the myriads of Assaye Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; And underneath another sun, Warring on a later day, Round affrighted Lisbon drew The treble works, the vast designs Of his labour'd rampart-lines, Where he greatly stood at bay, Whence he issued forth anew, And ever great and greater grew, Beating from the wasted vines Back to France her banded swarms, Back to France with countless blows, Till o'er the hills her eagles flew

Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamour of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose
In anger, wheeld on Europe-shadowing

And barking for the thrones of kings;
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler

down; A day of onsets of despair ! Dash'd on every rocky square Their surging charges foam'd themselves

away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; Thro’ the long-tormented air Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, And down we swept and charged and

overthrew. 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 arelaid by thine! And thro' the centuries let a people's voice In full acclaim, A people's voice, The proof and echo of all human fame, A people's voice, when they rejoice At civic revel and pomp and game, Attest their great commander's claim With honour, honour, honour, honour to

him, Eternal honour to his name,

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