THE FUNERAL 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 and 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 heard The knell of England's hero from the tower Of the old church, and asked the cause, and sighed. The vet'ran 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 press 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
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 dignities 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.
The poem from which the foregoing extract is taken appeared anonymously shortly after the death of the Duke of Wellington, in 1852, and attracted much attention at the time.
DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.
[NATHANIEL P. WILLIS, one of the foremost American writers, was born 20th January, 1807, and died January, 1867. He was the founder of the American Monthly Magazine, which has done much to foster literature in America.]
1. THE pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and, as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid
Reversed, beside him and the jewelled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
2. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade,
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,
And left him with his dead.
The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe :-
4. "Alas, my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair;-
That Death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom?
5. "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!
6. "The grave hath won thee! I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft wings flung ;— But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come To meet me, Absalom!
7." And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!
8. "And now, farewell! "Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-And thy dark sin !-oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!"
9. He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer.
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
1. Stop for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so,
As the ground was before, thus let it be ;—
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?
2. There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a
rising knell.
3. Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!
4. Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
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