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 ODE 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
 
 ODE 
 
 ON THE DEATH 
 
 DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 By ALFRED TENNYSON, 
 
 POET LAUREATE, 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 EDWAED MOXON, DOVEE STEEET. 
 
 1852.
 
 LON'DOX : 
 
 BRADBUEV AXD EVAS3, PBIXTEBS EXTRAORDISAET TO THE QUEEJf, 
 
 WHITEFEIABS. 
 
 u,uc
 
 ODE 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 THE DUKE or WELLINGTON. 
 
 I. 
 
 Let us bury the Great Duke 
 
 With an empire's lamentation, 
 Let us bury the Great Duke 
 
 To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, 
 When laurel-garlanded leaders fall. 
 And warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
 And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 
 
 II. 
 
 Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? 
 Let the sound of those he wrought for. 
 And the feet of those he fought for, 
 Echo round his bones for evermore.
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 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 moui-nful martial music blow ; 
 
 The last great Englishman is low. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Moura, for to us he seems the last : 
 Our sorrow draws but on the golden Past. 
 O friends, oui' 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 largest influence. 
 Yet freest from ambitious crime, 
 Om- 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.
 
 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 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 fall'n at length that tower of strength 
 
 Which stood fom'-square to all the winds that blew J 
 
 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 All is over and done : 
 
 Render thanks to the Giver, 
 
 England, for thy son. 
 
 Let the bell be toU'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 for ever 
 
 Among the wise and the bold. 
 
 Let the bell be toU'd ; 
 
 And a reverent people behold 
 
 The towering car, the sable steeds : 
 
 Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds.
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 Dark in its funeral fold. 
 
 Let the bell be toU'd ; 
 
 And tbe sound of the sorrowing anthem roU'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 those 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. 
 
 O 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-ringing avenues of song.
 
 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Who is he that cometh, hke an honour' cl 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 martial wisdom kept us free ; 
 
 O warrior-seaman, this is he. 
 
 This is England's greatest son. 
 
 Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
 
 And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
 
 He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
 
 And never lost an English gun ; 
 
 He that in his earlier day 
 
 Against the myriads of Assaye 
 
 Clash' d with his fiery few and won : 
 
 And underneath another sun 
 
 Made the soldier, led him on,
 
 10 ODE ON THE DEATH OP 
 
 And ever great and greater grew, 
 
 Beating from the wasted vines 
 
 All theii' marshals' bandit swarms 
 
 Back to France with countless blows ; 
 
 Till their host of eagles flew 
 
 Past the Pji'enean pines, 
 
 Follow'd up in valley and glen 
 
 With blare of bugle, clamour of men, 
 
 Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 
 
 And England poming on her foes. 
 
 Such a Avar had such a close. 
 
 He withdrew to brief repose. 
 
 Again their ravening eagle rose 
 
 In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing 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! 
 
 Dash'd on every rocky square 
 
 Their surging charges foam'd themselves away ; 
 
 Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
 
 Thro' the long-tormented air 
 
 Heaven flash' d a sudden jubilant ray, 
 
 And down we swept and charged and overthrew 
 
 So great a soldier taught us there,
 
 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 11 
 
 What long-enduring hearts could do 
 
 In that world' s-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
 
 Mighty seaman, tender and true, 
 
 And piu'e as he from taint of craven guile, 
 
 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 honour, honour, honour, honour to him. 
 
 Eternal honour to his name. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
 Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget 
 Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers,
 
 12 ODE ON THE DEATH OP 
 
 We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
 
 Of most unbounded reverence and regret 
 
 To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
 
 O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
 
 Of Em-ope, keep om- noble England whole, 
 
 And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
 
 Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 
 
 That sober freedom out of which there springs 
 
 Om- loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
 
 For, saving that, ye save mankind 
 
 Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
 
 And help the march of human mind, 
 
 Till crowds be sane and crowns be just ; 
 
 But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
 
 Perchance our greatness will increase ; 
 
 Perchance a darkening futm'e yields 
 
 Some reverse from worse to worse. 
 
 The blood of men in quiet fields, 
 
 And sprinkled on the sheaves of peace. 
 
 And remember him who led your hosts ; 
 
 Respect his sacred warning ; guard your coasts : 
 
 His voice is silent in yom* council-hall 
 
 Eor ever ; and whatever tempests lower 
 
 Eor ever silent ; even if they broke 
 
 In thunder, silent — yet remember all
 
 I 
 
 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; 
 Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
 Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power. 
 His eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
 All great self-seekers trampling on the right. 
 
 Truth-teller was om- England's Alfred named, 
 
 Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
 
 Whatever record leap to hght 
 
 He never shall be shamed. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Lo the leader in these glorious wars 
 Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
 Eollow'd by the brave of other lands. 
 He, on whom' from both her open hands 
 Lavish Honour shower'd all her stars, 
 And affluent Fortune emptied aU her horn. 
 Yea, let all good things await 
 Him who cares not to be great. 
 But as he saves or serves the state. 
 Not once or twice in our rough island-story 
 The path of duty was the way to glory. 
 He that walks it, only thirsting 
 Eor the right, and learns to deaden
 
 14 ODE OX THE DEATH OF 
 
 Love of self before his journey closes, 
 
 He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
 
 Into glossy purples, which outredden 
 
 All voluptuous garden-roses. 
 
 Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 
 
 The path of duty was the way to glory. 
 
 He, that ever following her commands, 
 
 On with toil of heart and knees and hands. 
 
 Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 
 
 His path upward, and prevail'd. 
 
 Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 
 
 Are close upon the shining table-lands 
 
 To which om- God Himself is moon and sun. 
 
 He has not fail'd : he hath prevail'd : 
 
 So let the men whose hearths he saved from shame 
 
 Thro' many and many an age proclaim 
 
 At civic revel and pomp and game. 
 
 And when the long-illumined cities flame. 
 
 Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
 
 With honoiu", honour, honoiu-, honour to him, 
 
 Eternal honour to his name. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Peace, his triumph will be sung 
 By some yet unmoulded tongue
 
 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 15 
 
 Far on in summers that we shall not see. 
 
 Peace, it is a day of pain 
 
 For one about whose patriarchal knee 
 
 Late the little children clung. 
 
 O peace, it is a day of pain 
 
 For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain 
 
 Once the weight and fate of Eiu'ope hung. 
 
 More than is of man's degree 
 
 Must be with us, watching here 
 
 At this, our great solemnity. 
 
 Wliom we see not we revere. 
 
 We revere, and we refrain 
 
 From talk of battles loud and vain. 
 
 And brawling memories all too free 
 
 For such a wise humility 
 
 As befits a solemn fane : 
 
 For solemn, too, this day are we. 
 
 friends, we doubt not that for one so true 
 
 There must be other nobler work to do 
 
 Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
 
 And Victor he must ever be. 
 
 Tho' worlds on worlds in myriad myriads roll 
 
 Round us, each with different powers, 
 
 And other forms of Hfe than ours, 
 
 What know we greater than the soul ?
 
 16 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OP WELLINOTON. 
 
 The man is gone, who seem'd so great, 
 
 Gone, but nothing can bereave him 
 
 Of the force he made his own 
 
 Being here, and we beheve him 
 
 Something far advanced in State, 
 
 And that he wears a truer crown 
 
 Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
 
 But speak no more of his renown. 
 
 Lay your earthly fancies down, 
 
 And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
 
 God accept him, Chiist receive him. 
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.