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O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

IV.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when to dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

V.

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.

O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,

Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

VI.

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,

And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,

And strikes him dead for thine and thee.

VII.

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry:

All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,

Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee

Like summer tempest came her tears-
'Sweet my child, I live for thee."

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VIII.

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:

Yet. O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main :
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF
WELLINGTON.

BURY the Great Duke

I.

With an empire's lamentation,

Let us bury the Great Duke

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,

Mourning when their leaders fall,

Warriors carry the warrior's pall,

And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

II.

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 for evermore.

III.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe.

Let the long long procession go,

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.

IV.

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.
Oh, 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, 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.

All is over and done:

V.

Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.

Let the bell be toll'd.

Render thanks to the Giver,

And render him to the mould.

Under the cross of gold

That shines over city and river.
There he shall rest forever

Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll'd;

And a reverent people behold

The towering car, the sable steeds;

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds,
Dark in its funeral fold.

Let the bell be toll'd;

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd;
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd
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;

When he with those deep voices wrought,
Guarding realms and kings from shame;
With these deep voices our dead captain 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-attemper'd frame.
Oh, 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.

VI.

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;

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