258 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 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, 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 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: For one about whose patriarchal knee 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 ! Whom we see not we revere ; We revere, and we refrain From talk of battles loud and vain, And brawling memories all too free As befits a solemn fane : We revere, and while we hear Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill roll Round us, each with different powers, 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.— And in the vast cathedral leave him. 1852. |