Wellington's Funeral

18th November 1852
 “VICTORY!”
  So once more the cry must be.
  Duteous mourning we fulfil
  In God's name; but by God's will,
  Doubt not, the last word is still
 “Victory!”
 Funeral,
  In the music round this pall,
  Solemn grief yields earth to earth;
  But what tones of solemn mirth
  In the pageant of new birth
 Rise and fall?
 For indeed,
  If our eyes were openèd,
  Who shall say what escort floats
  Here, which breath nor gleam denotes,—
  Fiery horses, chariots
 Fire-footed?
 Trumpeter,
  Even thy call he may not hear;
  Long-known voice for ever past,
  Till with one more trumpet-blast
  God's assuring word at last
 Reach his ear.
 Multitude,
  Hold your breath in reverent mood:
  For while earth's whole kindred stand
  Mute even thus on either hand,
  This soul's labour shall be scann'd
 And found good.
 Cherubim,
  Lift ye not even now your hymn?
  Lo! once lent for human lack,
  Michael's sword is rendered back.
  Thrills not now the starry track,
 Seraphim?
 Gabriel,
  Since the gift of thine “All hail!”
  Out of Heaven no time hath brought
  Gift with fuller blessing fraught
  Than the peace which this man wrought
 Passing well.
 Be no word
  Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd.
  Say: “'Twas thus in His decrees
  Who Himself, the Prince of Peace,
  For His harvest's high increase
 Sent a sword.”
 Veterans,
  He by whom the neck of France
  Then was given unto your heel,
  Timely sought, may lend as well
  To your sons his terrible
 Countenance.
 Waterloo!
  As the last grave must renew,
  Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain,—
  So methinks upon thy plain
  Falls some presage in the rain,
 In the dew.
 And O thou,
  Watching, with an exile's brow
  Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood:—
  Lo! the saving strength of God
  In some new heart's English blood
 Slumbers now.
 Emperor,
  Is this all thy work was for?—
  Thus to see thy self-sought aim,
  Yea thy titles, yea thy name,
  In another's shame, to shame
  Bandied o'er?
  Thy great work is but begun.
  With quick seed his end is rife
  Whose long tale of conquering strife
  Shows no triumph like his life
 Lost and won.