Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Funeral of the Duke of Wellington

The Funeral of the Duke of Wellington.

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 air
From morn till eve. The people all stood still,
And earth won back a Sabbath. There were none
Who cared to buy or sell and make a gain
For one whole day. All felt as they had lost
A father, and were fain to keep within,
Silent or speaking little. Such a day
An old man sees but once in all his time.

The simplest peasant in the land that day
Knew somewhat of his country's grief. He hoard
The knell of England's hero from the tower
Of the old church, and asked the cause and sighed.
The veteran who had bled on some far field
Fought o'er the battle for the thousandth time,
With quaint addition; and the little child,
That stopped his sport to run and ask his sire
What it all meant, picked out the simple tale,—
How he who drove the French from Waterloo,
And crushed the tyrant of the world, and made
His country great and glorious,—he was dead.
All, from the simplest to the stateliest, knew
But one sad story,—from the cottar's bairn
Up 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 eyes
Than 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 wide
As eye can reach the creaming waves press on
Impatient; or, as trees that bow their tops
One way when Alpine hollows bring one way
The blast whereat they quiver in the vale,
So millions pressed to swell the general grief
One way;—for once all men seemed one way drawn;
Or if, through evil hap and unforeseen
Some stayed behind, their hearts; at least, were there
The whole day through—could think of nothing else—
Hear nothing else—see nothing!

In his cell
The student saw the pageant; spied from far
The long-drawn pomp which reached from west to east
Slow moving in the silence—casque and plume
And banner waving sad; the marvellous state
Of 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 form
Which greatness can assume or honour name,
Peaceful or warlike,—each and all were there,
Trooping in sable sorrow after him
Who slept serene upon his funeral car
In glorious rest!. . . . A child might understand
That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief
Wide as the world. A child might understand
That all mankind were sorrowing for one!
That banded nations had conspired to pay
This homage to the chief who drew his sword
At the command of Duty; kept it bright
Through perilous days; and, soon as victory smiled,
Laid it unsullied, in the lap of Peace.

Such things, and more, the student spied; as dull
Of heart were he who, hearing through the day
The doleful clang from many a tower and spire,
(As if in every college one were dead!)
Could sit with slumbering fancy; hear no strains
Of melancholy music: see no shade
Cast (as by nodding plumes) across his book,
And hiding all the sense; yea, pour no prayer
Voiceless, 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 set
The saintly palm-branch in his strong right-hand!
Amid the conquering armies of the skies
Give him high place for ever! let him walk
O'er meads of better asphodel; and be
Where 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 snares
Of office, station, rank, but stood sublime
In natural greatness. . . . O Eternal King—
O Father of all spirits,—give him peace!"