This poem on the day of the funeral of the late Duke of Wellington in 1852, was
published anonymously. It was dated from "Oriel College, Oxford."
"The Duke of Wellington left to his countrymen a great legacy—greater even
than his glory. He left them the contemplation of his character. I will not say
his conduct revived the sense of duty in England. I will not say that of our
country. But that his conduct inspired public life with a purer and more masculine
tone I cannot doubt. His career rebukes restless vanity, and reprimands the
irregular ebullitions of a morbid egotism. I doubt not that among all orders of
Englishmen—from those with the highest responsibilities of our society to those
who perform the humblest duties—I daresay there is not a man who in his toil
and his perplexity has not sometimes thought of the Duke, and found in his
example support and solace. Though he lived so much in the hearts and minds
of his countrymen—though he occupied such eminent posts and fulfilled such
august duties—it was not till he died that we felt what a place he filled in the
feelings and thoughts of the people of England. Never was the influence of real
greatness more completely asserted than on his decease. In an age whose boast
of intellectual equality flatters all our self-complacencies, the world suddenly
acknowledged that it had lost the greatest of men; in an age of utility, the most
industrious and common-sense people in the world could find no vent for their woe
and no representative for their sorrow but the solemnity of a pageant; and we—we
who have met here for such different purposes—to investigate the sources of
the wealth of nations, to enter into statistical research, and to encounter each
other in fiscal controversy—we present to the world the most sublime and
touching spectacle that human circumstances can well produce—the spectacle
of a senate mourning a hero!"—Disraeli's Speech on the Death of the Duke of
Wellington.
No sounds of labour vexed the quiet airFrom morn till eve. The people all stood still,And earth won back a Sabbath. There were noneWho cared to buy or sell and make a gainFor one whole day. All felt as they had lostA father, and were fain to keep within,Silent or speaking little. Such a dayAn old man sees but once in all his time.
The simplest peasant in the land that dayKnew somewhat of his country's grief. He hoardThe knell of England's hero from the towerOf the old church, and asked the cause and sighed.The veteran who had bled on some far fieldFought o'er the battle for the thousandth time,With quaint addition; and the little child,That stopped his sport to run and ask his sireWhat it all meant, picked out the simple tale,—How he who drove the French from Waterloo,And crushed the tyrant of the world, and madeHis country great and glorious,—he was dead.All, from the simplest to the stateliest, knewBut one sad story,—from the cottar's bairnUp to the fair-haired lady on the throne,Who sat within and sorrowed for her friend;And every tear she shed became her well,And seemed more lovely in her people's eyesThan all the starry wonders of her crown.
But as the waters of the Northern Sea(When one strong wind blows steady from the pole)Come hurrying to the shore, and far and wideAs eye can reach the creaming waves press onImpatient; or, as trees that bow their topsOne way when Alpine hollows bring one wayThe blast whereat they quiver in the vale,So millions pressed to swell the general griefOne way;—for once all men seemed one way drawn;Or if, through evil hap and unforeseenSome stayed behind, their hearts; at least, were thereThe whole day through—could think of nothing else—Hear nothing else—see nothing!
In his cellThe student saw the pageant; spied from farThe long-drawn pomp which reached from west to eastSlow moving in the silence—casque and plumeAnd banner waving sad; the marvellous stateOf heralds, soldiers, nobles, foreign powers,With baton or with pennon: princes, peers,Judges, and dignitaries of Church and State,And warriors grown grey-headed; every formWhich greatness can assume or honour name,Peaceful or warlike,—each and all were there,Trooping in sable sorrow after himWho slept serene upon his funeral carIn glorious rest!. . . . A child might understandThat 'twas no national sorrow, but a griefWide as the world. A child might understandThat all mankind were sorrowing for one!That banded nations had conspired to payThis homage to the chief who drew his swordAt the command of Duty; kept it brightThrough perilous days; and, soon as victory smiled,Laid it unsullied, in the lap of Peace.
Such things, and more, the student spied; as dullOf heart were he who, hearing through the dayThe doleful clang from many a tower and spire,(As if in every college one were dead!)Could sit with slumbering fancy; hear no strainsOf melancholy music: see no shadeCast (as by nodding plumes) across his book,And hiding all the sense; yea, pour no prayerVoiceless, yet hearty as ineloquent;Unconscious to himself of what he said;—
"God, rest his gallant spirit! give him peace!And crown his brows with amaranth,—and setThe saintly palm-branch in his strong right-hand!Amid the conquering armies of the skiesGive him high place for ever! let him walkO'er meads of better asphodel; and beWhere dwell the single-hearted and the wise,The saviours of their country!—faithful men,And loyal to their Prince, and true and brave;Men like himself; severely, simply good,Who scorned to be ambitious,—scorned the snaresOf office, station, rank, but stood sublimeIn natural greatness. . . . O Eternal King—O Father of all spirits,—give him peace!"
