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A people's voice ! we are a people yet. Tho' all men else their nobler dreams

forget, Confused by brainless mobs and lawless

Powers; Thank Him who isled us here, and

roughly set His Briton in blown seas and storming

showers, We have a voice, with which to pay the

debt Of boundless love and reverence and re

He spoke among you, and the Man who

spoke; Who never sold the truth to serve the

hour, Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow Thro' either babbling world of high and

low ; Whose life was work, whose language

rife With rugged maxims hewn from life ; Who never spoke against a foe ; Whose eighty winters freeze with one

rebuke All great self-seekers trampling on the

right : Truth-teller was our England's Alfred

named ;
Truth-lover was our English Duke ;
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.


To those great men who fought, and kept

it ours. And keep it ours, O God, from brute

control; O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye,

the soul Of Europe, keep our noble England

whole, And save the one true seed of freedom


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Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, That sober freedom out of which there

springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 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.
Remember him who led your hosts ;
He bad you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward

His voice is silent in your council-hall
For ever; and whatever tempests lour
For ever silent; even if they broke
In thunder, silent; yet remember all

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars
Now to glorious burial slowly borne,
Follow'd by the brave of other lands,
He, on whom from both her open hands
Lavish Honour shower'd all her stars,
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.
Yea, let all good things await
Him who cares not to be great,
But as he saves or serves the state.
Not once or twice in our rough island-

The path of duty was the way to glory :
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which outredden
All voluptuous garden-roses.
Not once or twice in our fair island-story,
The path of duty was the way to glory :



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Whom we see not we revere ;
We revere, and we refrain
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility
As befits a solemn fane :
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,
Until we doubt not that for one so true
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will ;
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads

Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul ?
On God and Godlike men we build our

trust. Hush, the Dead March wails in the

people's ears : The dark crowd moves, and there are sob

and tears : The black earth yawns : the morta

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
He is gone who seem'd so great. -
Gone; but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave hi
Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him.
God accept him, Christ receive him.

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Peace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmoulded tongue
Far on in summers that we shall not see :
Peace, it is a day of pain
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

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung.
Ours the pain, be his the gain !
More than is of man's degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.


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If you be fearful, then must we be bold.

Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. Better the waste Atlantic rollid

On her and us and ours for evermore. What! have we fought for Freedom from

our prime, At last to dodge and palter with a public



And these in our Thermopylæ shall stand, And hold against the world this honour

of the land.





Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder’d. Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns !' he said : Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.


“Forward, the Light Brigade !' Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd : Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die : Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

VI. When can their glory fade ? O the wild charge they made !

All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made ! Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred !


Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.



1. Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet, In this wide hall with earth's invention

stored, And praise the invisible universal Lord, Who lets once more in peace the nations

meet, Where Science, Art, and Labour have

outpour'd Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonderd : Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian

11. O silent father of our Kings to be Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee, For this, for all, we weep our thanks to


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