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ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
By Mrs. Bushby.
The blow has fallen!—that deep stunning blow
Which smites all hearts, as if but one pulse beat
In myriads of human bosoms. Lo!
The mightiest spirit on the earth to meet
Its mightier Judge has gone! That matchless mind
Which soared o'er all, unscathed by lapse of years,
And seemed, like Time, the monarch of mankind,
Is quenched in this—to shine in higher spheres.
The faithful guardian of his country's weal—
The champion of her honour and her cause—
The noblest of her hero-sons,—the leal,
The stanch defender of her throne and laws,
Britannia's glory, and her loftiest pride,—
He, to whose world-revered, illustrious name
In doing homage every nation vied,
As, on the echoing trumpet-blasts of fame
To the wide earth's remotest bounds 'twas borne—
Even he insatiate Death has made its prey,
And once exulting Albion now must mourn
Her honoured warrior-statesman passed away!
The world seems less of him bereft!
How deep soe'er a people's wail,
Yet eloquence itself must fail
To tell the blank that he has left.
In lordly and in regal hall—
In every homestead through the land—
Seems spread, as by some spectral hand,
The shadow of a funeral pall.
Wherever British foot hath trod—
And can one name the distant spot
Where Britain's wandering sons have not
Raised altars to the Christians' God?
'Midst India's plains—its palmy groves—
Its storied scenes—where erst began
That glorious race the hero ran—
To where the swarthy Tartar roves;—
