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Each lovely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead.
Sleep with thy beauties here, while we Will show these garments made by
thee; These were the coats, in these are read The monuments of Dorcas dead: These were thy acts, and thou shalt
have These hung, as honors o'er thy grave, And after us, distressed,
Should fame be dumb,
Thy very tomb
DIRGE FOR DORCAS.
COME pitie us, all ye who see
Then we will keep
A fast, and weep Our eyes out all together, For Tabitha, who dead lies here, Clean washt, and laid out for the bier. O modest matrons, weep and waile! For now the corne and wine must
faile; The basket and the bynn of bread, Wherewith so many soules were fed, Stand empty here forever;
And ah! the poore,
At thy worne doore,
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest. The fount, re-appearing,
From the raindrop shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest; But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.
But ah, alas! the almond-bough
us, The saffron and the calamus; The spice and spiknard hence is
gone, The storax and the cynamon; The caroll of our gladnesse
Has taken wing,
And our late spring
Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!
FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT
How wise wast thou in all thy waies!
plumes, And jet it with their choice per
fumes! Thy vestures were not flowing;
Nor did the street
Accuse thy feet
FEAR no more the heat o' th' sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy
wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
A Power is passing from the earth To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; But when the great and good depart What is it more than this
That Man, who is from God sent
forth, Doth yet again to God return? Such ebb and flow must ever be, Thei) wherefore should we mourn ?
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE
DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
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 influ
ence, 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 fallen 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.
BURY the Great Duke
With an empire's lamentation. Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the inourning of a
mighty nation, Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.
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 forevermore.
Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
it grow, And let the mournful martial music
blow; The last great Englishman is low.
All is over and done:
kuolled; And the sound of the sorrowing an
them rolled 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 His captain's-ear has heard them
boom Bellowing victory, bellowing doom:
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
When he with those deep voices
wrought, Guarding realms and kings from
shame; With those deep voices our dead cap
tain taught The tyrant, and asserts his claim In that dread sound to the great name, Which he has worn so pure of blame, In praise and in dispraise the same, A man of well-attempered frame. () civic muse, to such a name, To such a name for ages long, To such a name, Preserve a broad approach of fame, And ever-echoing avenues of song.
Who is he that cometh, like an hon
ored 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 musled 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 gained a hundred fights, Nor ever lost an English gun; This is he that far away Against the myriads of Assaye Clashed with his fiery few and won; And underneath another sun, Warring on a later day, Round affrighted Lisbon drew The treble works, the vast designs Of his labored 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 Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
Followed up in valley and glen
ing 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! Dashed on every rocky square Their surging charges foamed them
selves away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; Through the long-tormented air Heaven flashed 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-earthquake, Waterloo ! Mighty Seaman, tender and true, And pure as he from taint of craven
guile, O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, () 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, The proof and echo of all human
fame, A people's voice, when they rejoice At civic revel and pomp and game, Attest their great commander's
claim With honor, honor, honor, honor to
him, Eternal honor to his name.
Remember him who led your hosts; He bade you guard the sacred coasts. Your cannons moulder on the sea
ward wall; His voice is silent in your council