Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest

The first-born of thy genius.

Ever retiring thou dost gaze

Artist-like,

On the prime labour of thine early days:

No matter what the sketch might be;

Whether the high field on the bushless Pike,

Or even a sand-built ridge

Of heaped hills that mound the sea,

Overblown with murmurs harsh,

Or even a lowly cottage whence we see

Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh,

Where from the frequent bridge,

Like emblems of infinity,

The trenched waters run from sky to sky;

Or a garden bower'd close

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose,

Long alleys falling down to twilight grots,

Or opening upon level plots

Of crowned lilies, standing near

Purple-spiked lavender:

Whither in after life retired

From brawling storms,

From weary wind,

With youthful fancy re-inspired,

We may hold converse with all forms

Of the many-sided mind,

And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.

My friend, with you to live alone,
Were how much better than to own

A crown, a sceptre, and a throne!
O strengthen me, enlighten me!
I faint in this obscurity,
Thou dewy dawn of memory.

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF

TENNYSON.

WELLINGTON.

Published alone, as a pamphlet, on the day of the Duke's funeral in 1852; but very considerably altered, and appended to “Maud,' in 1856.

I.

URY 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.

II.

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.

III.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,

Let the long long procession go,

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.

IV.

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, resolute,
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!

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.

All is over and done :

V.

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 toll'd:

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd;

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd

Thro' the dome of the golden cross;

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss;
He knew their voices of old.

For many a time in many a clime