That shielded all her life from harm, At last must part with her to thee;
Now waiting to be made a wife,
Her feet, my darling, on the dead;
Their pensive tablets round her head,
And the most living words of life
Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
The Wilt thou?' answer'd, and again
The Wilt thou?' ask'd, till out of twain
Her sweet 'I will' has made you one.
Now sign your names, which shall be read,
Mute symbols of a joyful morn,
By village eyes as yet unborn.
The names are sign'd, and overhead
Begins the clash and clang that tells
The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells.
O happy hour, and happier hours
Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them - maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers.
O happy hour, behold the bride
With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side.
To-day the grave is bright for me,
For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea.
Let all my genial spirits advance
To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France.
It circles round, and fancy plays,
And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days.
Nor count me all to blame if I
Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.
But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favor'd horses wait;
They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.
A shade falls on us like the dark
From little cloudlets on the grass,
But sweeps away as out we pass
To range the woods, to roam the park,
Discussing how their courtship grew,
And talk of others that are wed,
And how she look'd, and what he said,
And back we come at fall of dew.
Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth
Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three,
And last the dance; - till I retire. Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,
And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire:
And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
Till over down and over dale
All night the shining vapor sail
And pass the silent-lighted town,
The white-fated halls, the glancing rills,
And catch at every mountain head,
And o'er the friths that branch and
Their sleeping silver thro' the hills;
And touch with shade the bridal doors,
With tender gloom the roof, the wall;
And breaking let the splendor fall
To spangle all the happy shores
By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds,
And, moved thro' life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race
Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
On knowledge; under whose command
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand
Is Nature like an open book;
Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the past.
No more in soldier fashion will he greet
With lifted hand the gazer in the street.
O friends, our 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 amplest influence,
Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our 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.
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-echoing avenues of song!
Against the myriads of Assaye
Clash'd with his fiery few and won;
And underneath another sun,
Warring on a later day,
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works, the vast designs
Of his labor'd rampart-lines,
Where he greatly stood at bay,
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew,
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms,
Back to France with countless blows,
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamor of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose
In anger, wheel'd on Europe - shadowing
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