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, IV. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; Dear as remember'd kisses after death, V. O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light O were I thou that she might take me in, Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: O tell her, brief is life but love is long, 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, And gives the battle to his hands: And strikes him dead for thine and thee. VII. Home they brought her warrior dead: All her maidens, watching, said, Then they praised him, soft and low, Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Took the face-cloth from the face; Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee Like summer tempest came her tears- 66 VIII. Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? Ask me no more: what answer should I give? Yet. O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 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, III. Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, Let the long long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, IV. Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 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, 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. Among the wise and the bold. And a reverent people behold The towering car, the sable steeds; Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, Let the bell be toll'd; And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; For many a time in many a clime His captain's ear has heard them boom When he with those deep voices wrought, In that dread sound to the great name, 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; |