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Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow Thro' either babbling world of high and low;

Whose life was work, whose language rife With rugged maxims hewn from life; Who never spoke against a foe;

Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke

All great self-seekers trampling on the right.

Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;

Truth-lover was our English Duke!
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.

VIII

Lo! the leader in these glorious wars
Now to glorious burial slowly borne,
Follow'd by the brave of other lands,
He, on whom from both her open hands
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars,
And affluent Fortune emptied all 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
That path of duty was the way to glory.
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which out-redden
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 our God himself is moon and sun.
Such was he: his work is done.
But while the races of mankind endure
Let his great example stand
Colossal, seen of every land,

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure;

Till in all lands and thro' all human story
The path of duty be the way to glory.
And let the land whose hearths he saved
from shame

For many and many an age proclaim

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Once the weight and fate of Europe hung.
Ours the pain, be his the gain!
More than is of man's degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.
Whom 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:
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,
Until 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.

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will,
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads
roll

Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul?
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.
Hush, the Dead March wails in the peo-
ple's ears;

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs

and tears;

The black earth yawns; the mortal disappears;

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;

He is gone who seem'd so great.-
Gone, but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,

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TO THE QUEEN

ALFRED TENNYSON

[Epilogue, Idylls of the King]

O loyal to the royal in thyself,
And loyal to thy land, as this to thee-
Bear witness, that rememberable day,
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the
Prince

Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life again

From halfway down the shadow of the grave,

Past with thee thro' thy people and their love,

And London roll'd one tide of joy thro' all Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of

man

And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime

Thunderless lightnings striking under sea From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard

A strain to shame us "keep you to yourselves;

So loyal is too costly! friends-your love Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go." Is this the tone of empire? here the faith That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice And meaning, whom the roar of Hougou

mont

Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? What shock has fool'd her since, that she should speak

So feebly? wealthier-wealthier-hour by hour!

The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas?

There rang her voice, when the full city peal'd

Thee and thy Prince! The loyal to their

erown

Are loyal to their own far sons, who love Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes For ever-broadening England, and her

throne

In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, That knows not her own greatness: if she knows

And dreads it we are fall'n.-But thou, my
Queen,

Not for itself, but thro' thy living love
For one to whom I made it o'er his grave

Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale,
New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with

Soul

Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost,

Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak,

And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him

Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's,

one

Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time That hover'd between war and wantonness, And crownings and dethronements: take withal

Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven

Will blow the tempest in the distance back From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark,

Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm,
Waverings of every vane with every wind,
And wordy trucklings to the transient hour,
And fierce or careless looseners of the faith,
And Softness breeding scorn of simple life,
Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold,
Or Labor, with a groan and not a voice,
Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n from
France,

And that which knows, but careful for itself,

And that which knows not, ruling that which knows

To its own harm: the goal of this great world

Lies beyond sight: yet-if our slowly-grown And crown'd Republic's crowning common

sense,

That saved her many times, not fail-their fears

Are morning shadows huger than the shapes That cast them, not those gloomier which forego

The darkness of that battle in the West, Where all of high and holy dies away. (1873)

A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER (1852)

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

Push hard across the sand,

For the salt wind gathers breath; Shoulder and wrist and hand, Push hard as the push of death.

The wind is as iron that rings,

The foam-heads loosen and flee;

It swells and welters and swings, The pulse of the tide of the sea.

And up on the yellow cliff

The long corn flickers and shakes; Push, for the wind holds stiff,

And the gunwale dips and rakes.

Good hap to the fresh fierce weather, The quiver and beat of the sea! While three men hold together

The kingdoms are less by three.

Out to the sea with her there,

Out with her over the sand,

Let the kings keep the earth for their share We have done with the sharers of land.

They have tied the world in a tether,

They have bought over God with a fee; While three men hold together,

The kingdoms are less by three.

We have done with the kisses that sting,
The thief's mouth red from the feast,
The blood on the hands of the king,
And the lie at the lips of the priest.

Will they tie the winds in a tether,

Put a bit in the jaws of the sea? While three men hold together,

The kingdoms are less by three.

Let our flag run out straight in the wind! The old red shall be floated again

When the ranks that are thin shall be thinned,

When the names that were twenty are ten;

When the devil's riddle is mastered

And the galley-bench creaks with a Pope, We shall see Buonaparte the bastard

Kick heels with his throat in a rope.

While the shepherd sets wolves on his sheep
And the emperor halters his kine,
While Shame is a watchman asleep
And Faith is a keeper of swine.

Let the wind shake our flag like a feather, Like the plumes of the foam of the sea! While three men hold together,

The kingdoms are less by three.

All the world has its burdens to bear,

From Cayenne to the Austrian whips;

Forth, with the rain in our hair
And the salt sweet foam in our lips:

In the teeth of the hard glad weather,
In the blown wet face of the sea;
While three men hold together,
The kingdoms are less by three.

AN APPEAL

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

Art thou indeed among these,
Thou of the tyrannous crew,
The kingdoms fed upon blood,
O queen from of old of the seas,
England, art thou of them too
That drink of the poisonous flood,
That hide under poisonous trees?

Nay, thy name from of old,
Mother, was pure, or we dreamed;
Purer we held thee than this,
Purer fain would we hold;
So goodly a glory it seemed,
A fame so bounteous of bliss,
So more precious than gold.

A praise so sweet in our ears,
That thou in the tempest of things
As a rock for a refuge shouldst stand,
In the blood-red river of tears

Poured forth for the triumph of kings;
A safeguard, a sheltering land,
In the thunder and torrent of years.

Strangers came gladly to thee,
Exiles, chosen of men,

Safe for thy sake in thy shade,
Sat down at thy feet and were free.
So men spake of thee then;
Now shall their speaking be stayed?
Ah, so let it not be!

Not for revenge or affright,
Pride, or a tyrannous lust,

Cast from thee the crown of thy praise.
Mercy was thine in thy might;
Strong when thou wert, thou wert just;
Now, in the wrong-doing days,
Cleave thou, thou at least, to the right.

How should one charge thee, how sway,
Save by the memories that were?
Not thy gold nor the strength of thy ships,
Nor the might of thine armies at bay,
Made thee, mother, most fair;

But a word from republican lips
Said in thy name in thy day.

Hast thou said it, and hast thou forgot!
Is thy praise in thine ears as a scoff?
Blood of men guiltless was shed,
Children, and souls without spot,
Shed, but in places far off;
Let slaughter no more be, said
Milton; and slaughter was not.

Was it not said of thee too,
Now, but now, by thy foes,
By the slaves that had slain their France
And thee would slay as they slew-
"Down with her walls that enclose
Freemen that eye us askance.
Fugitives, men that are true!"

This was thy praise or thy blame
From bondsman or freeman-to be
Pure from pollution of slaves,
Clean of their sins, and thy name
Bloodless, innocent, free;

Now if thou be not, thy waves
Wash not from off thee thy shame.

Freeman he is not, but slave,
Whoso in fear for the State
Cries for surety of blood,
Help of gibbet and grave;
Neither is any land great
Whom, in her fear-stricken mood,
These things only can save.

Lo! how fair from afar,
Taintless of tyranny, stands
Thy mighty daughter, for years
Who trod the winepress of war,—
Shines with immaculate hands;
Slays not a foe, neither fears;
Stains not peace with a scar.

Be not as tyrant or slave,
England; be not as these,
Thou that wert other than they.
Stretch out thine hand, but to save;
Put forth thy strength, and release:
Lest there arise, if thou slay,
Thy shame as a ghost from the grave.

RECESSIONAL (1897)

RUDYARD KIPLING

God of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far-flung battle lineBeneath whose awful hand we hold

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DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

God said, Let there be light! and there was light.

Then heard we sounds as though the Earth did sing

And the Earth's angel cried upon the wing: We saw priests fall together and turn white:

And covered in the dust from the sun's sight,

A king was spied, and yet another king. We said: "The round world keeps its balancing:

On this globe, they and we are opposite,If it is day with us, with them 't is night. Still, Man, in thy just pride, remember this: Thou hadst not made that thy sons' sons shall ask

What the word king may mean in their day's task,

But for the light that led: and if light is, It is because God said, Let there be light."

SAY NOT THe Struggle NOUGHT AVAILETH

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,.
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. (1849)

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND

ROBERT BROWNING

That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds through the country-side,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace,-
I made six days a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct

Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked

The fire-flies from the roof above,
Bright creeping through the moss they love:
-How long it seems since Charles was
lost!

Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed
The country in my very sight;
And when that peril ceased at night,
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal fires; well, there I lay

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