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.

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 seaman, 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 a nearer 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
Past 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.
He withdrew to brief repose.

Again their ravening eagle rose

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings,
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's-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 are laid by thine!
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice
In full acclaim,

A people's voice,

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,

Lifted up in heart 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' worlds on worlds in myriad myriads rol
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 sounds 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.
But speak no more of his renown,

Lay your earthly fancies down,

And in the vast cathedral leave him.

God accept him, Christ receive him.

VERSES DELIVERED TO THE EARL OF SOMERSETT,

UPON HIS WEDDING DAY.

(By Ben Jonson. Recently discovered.*)

To the Most Noble and above his Titles, Robert, Earle of Somerset :—

THEY are not those, are present wth theyr face,

And clothes, and guifts, that only do thee grace
At these thy nuptials; but, whose heart and thought
Do wayte upon thee; and theyr Loue not bought,
Such weare true Wedding robes, and are true Freindes,
That bid, God give thee ioy and haue no endes

W'h I do, early, vertuous Somerset,

And pray, thy ioys as lasting bee, as gret.

Not only this, but euery day of thine,

With the same looke, or wth a better shine,
May she whom thou for spouse today dost take
Out-bee yt Wife, in worth, thy freind did make :
And thou to her, that Husband, may exalt

Hymens amends, to make it worth his fault.
So be there neuer discontent, or sorrow

To rise wth eyther of you, on the morrow.
So be yo'r Concord, still, as deepe as mute;
And euery ioy in mariage, turne a fruite.
So may thy Mariage-Pledges', comforts proue:
And euery birth encrease the heate of Love.
So in theyr number may you neuer see
Mortality, till you a mortall bee.

And when your yeares rise more, than would be told
Yet neyther of you seeme to th' other old.

That all, yt view you then, and late may say,
Sure this glad payre were maried but this day.

BEN JONSON.

* An account of the discovery of these lines will be found in the CHRONICLE, p. 31.

INDEX.

[N.B. The figures within Crotchets refer to the History.]