In his cell
The student saw the pageant; spied from far
The long-drawn pomp which reached from west to east
Slow moving in the silence—casque and plume
And banner waving sad; the marvellous state
Of heralds, soldiers, nobles, foreign powers,
With baton or with pennon: princes, peers,
Judges, and dignitaries of Church and State,
And warriors grown grey-headed; every form
Which greatness can assume or honour name,
Peaceful or warlike,—each and all were there,
Trooping in sable sorrow after him
Who slept serene upon his funeral car
In glorious rest!. . . . A child might understand
That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief
Wide as the world. A child might understand
That all mankind were sorrowing for one!
That banded nations had conspired to pay
This homage to the chief who drew his sword
At the command of Duty; kept it bright
Through perilous days; and, soon as victory smiled,
Laid it unsullied, in the lap of Peace.
Such things, and more, the student spied; as dull
Of heart were he who, hearing through the day
The doleful clang from many a tower and spire,
(As if in every college one were dead!)
Could sit with slumbering fancy; hear no strains
Of melancholy music: see no shade
Cast (as by nodding plumes) across his book,
And hiding all the sense; yea, pour no prayer
Voiceless, yet hearty as ineloquent;
Unconscious to himself of what he said;—
"God, rest his gallant spirit! give him peace!
And crown his brows with amaranth,—and set
The saintly palm-branch in his strong right-hand!
Amid the conquering armies of the skies
Give him high place for ever! let him walk
O'er meads of better asphodel; and be
Where dwell the single-hearted and the wise,
The saviours of their country!—faithful men,
And loyal to their Prince, and true and brave;
Men like himself; severely, simply good,
Who scorned to be ambitious,—scorned the snares
Of office, station, rank, but stood sublime
In natural greatness. . . . O Eternal King—
O Father of all spirits,—give him peace!"
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The Funeral of The Duke of Wellington.
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