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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,
Let his great example stand
Colossal, seen of every land,

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman

pure :

Till in all lands and thro' all human story The path of duty be the way to glory :

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame

For many and many an age proclaim
At civic revel and pomp and game,
And when the long-illumined cities flame,
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame,

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him,

Eternal honour to his name.

IX.

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 brain

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.

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

roll

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 sobs

and tears:

The black earth yawns: the mortal

disappears;

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 him.
Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,

And in the vast cathedral leave him.
God accept him, Christ receive him.

1852.