University of Virginia Library

WELLINGTON:

OR, THE HERO'S FUNERAL.

I.

INTRODUCTION.

A COMPARISON.

But while the riband, star, and coronet
With mingled radiance in one warrior met,
Austerely simple to the last he stood,
A hero great by being good!
In unity of heart and mind
Thus he and Nelson are combined
For prowess, deeds, and all we prize
When perils round a nation rise:
The first became the Nelson of all lands,
The second proved our Wellington by sea;
And both were weapon'd by Almighty hands
To guard the island-fortress of the free:
Nor when the bomb-shell blazed, and roll'd the culverin
From iron lips of death its thunder and its din,
From Tagus to the Thames
From Sambre to the Seine
Is there a brand that shames
The spot where he hath been!—
The Man was never in the Hero lost
Nor Valour glorified at Virtue's cost.

II.

NIGHT-SCENES ON NOVEMBER 17.

November's night is harsh and cold;
Like banners seem the clouds up-roll'd
Sable and dusk, in starless heaven,
And, here and there, by night-gales driven;
Fiercely and fast the loud-toned rain
Rattles against the window-pane;
But neither wet nor winter's chill
The mingled rush becalm of myriads coming still:—
Through dusky lane, and street, or lighted square
London is moved, and motion ev'rywhere!

MIDNIGHT.

III. DAWN.

But the cloudy dawn is waking
And the day-blush dimly breaking:
Again the fevers of excitement roll
Tides of emotion through that public soul
Which heaves vast London, while 'mid hearts that mourn,
A dead Immortal to his tomb is borne.
A thrilling freshness in the bracing air
Gives sudden token that the wind is fair;
Or the blue forehead of the Sky afar
Glows like a gem of lustre one lone star,
Whose quiv'ring radiance, exquisitely bright,
Throbs through the air, and fascinates the sight.
Relenting Winter hath subdued her rain,
And, lo! the clearing heavens are calm again:—
A beaming change of blessed weather
To welcome hearts convened together,
As though the conscious Atmosphere would pay
Some genial homage to this glorious day.

IV. MORNING.

And now go forth!—a spectacle to see
Eternalized in mind and memory.
Yet, when the Muse of History records
The pomp we celebrate, in deathless words,
She will not pause o'er car and cavalcade,
Or mailéd hosts in banner'd pomp array'd;
But this will be the truth, to tell,—
That Empires loved one Man so well,
A million and a half of mourners came
Whose hearts were motto'd with his cherish'd name!
The People make the pageant then;
His monument is living men;
And never in the past of hero-crowded time
Look'd Hannibal so great, or Pompey so sublime!
And why? because the Chief of Waterloo
Teaches all ages what firm Will can do
When, all intol'rant of the mean and low,
Virtue his friend, and Vice his only foe,
Each baser passion from the bosom hurl'd,—
The vanquisher of Self is victor of the World!
Career and character, where thus combined,
Both make and move the hist'ry of mankind,
When perill'd Crisis and o'erwhelming Power
Need more than strategy to front the hour.

V.

On window, roof, and balcony,
Where foot can stand, or eye can see;
By churchyard-gate, or garden-wall,
Near porch and palace, hut and hall
Crowd human forms, like clust'ring bees
That swarm at noon on summer-trees;
While, clashing with incessant jar,
Rush chariot-wheels and rolling car;
Horse and horsemen then combine,
Clear the way, and close the line:—
Still, the trooping thousands come!
Deeper yet the distant hum;
Ev'ry form and ev'ry face
Apparell'd with emotion's trace;
Each for each, and all on all
For succour in loud chorus call,
Till the whirling air around
Surges like a sea of sound!

VI. THE PROCESSION FORMS.

VII. THE CHARGER.

But yet awaits a tearful Sight,
Though not with martial splendour dight.
As some lone bugle, when the fight is done,
That wails a death-note, while the dying sun
Goes down on carnage-cover'd fields,
O'er sad imagination wields
A spell more potent than the cannon-roar,
So, yon last steed which bears its Chief no more,
Pierces the heart with pathos all its own
And moves each chord with some responsive tone;
Where now, the last to close the cavalcade
That through three miles its winding pomp display'd,
A groom-led Charger riderless
Comes drooping in its loneliness,
As though the meek-eyed Creature felt
Funereal sorrow through it melt.
And, who that saw the boot and spur,
And did not feel his life-blood stir,
When that denuded Steed a type was made to be
That glory is the garb earth puts on vanity!

VIII. MILITARY SCENE.

Hark! again the muffled drum,
While the plumed Battalions come
Timing deep their measured tread
To the March surnamed the Dead,
Six in file, in single rank,
Ringing out a hollow clank:—
Mingle with the martial scene
Mailéd Guard and red Marine,
Foot and Horse-Artillery,
And brigades of Infantry:
For thus, each Regiment sent its type to show
Some fitting token of funereal woe;
And when, to end the vast array,
Hussar and Lancer lined the way,
The wailing Piper, next, a pibroch blew
And coronach that thrill'd the soul of Feeling through!

IX. FUNERAL-CAR.

But lo! with gloomy scutcheons glorious
Each telling of the Past victorious,
Engraved by heraldry of war,
Comes rolling on the laurell'd Car
Under the shade of whose triumphant pall
Imagination dreams the earthly all
Of Arthur, Duke of Wellington!—
The greatest Hero Time has gazed upon.
And never since bereavèd patriots met
In solemn anguish and sublime regret
Round the mourn'd bier of warrior, saint or king,
Could grateful Mem'ry into action bring
Such impulses of thrilling awe
As sanctified the scene I saw,
Drawn by twelve steeds of sable hue
When first the Death-car roll'd in view.

X. A LIVING SPECTACLE.

'Twas not the pomp, the banner, nor the plume,
Nor all which glorifies a Warrior's tomb,
That touch'd with superhuman power
The awful pathos of that deathless hour.
'Twas moral Grandeur! 'twas the true sublime
Of sacred Nature soaring out of time,
And drinking in from worlds which faith can see
The inspirations of eternity.
And one such moment grasps an age of life,
With more than poetry and passion rife;
Making us feel immortal instincts rise
And claim celestial kinship with the Skies.

XI.

Round that high Car though countless hosts assembled,
And under pawing steeds the pathways trembled,
You might have heard your heart-pulse beat,
So hush'd became the o'eraw'd Street!
And pale, as if with inward prayer,
The living Mass stood gazing there,
With heads uncover'd and with moisten'd eyes,
Whose silence utter'd, “There a Hero lies!
From whom, when call'd to bid the earth farewell,
The truncheons of eight laurell'd Armies fell;
The pillar of our Church and State,
By self-renouncement nobly great;
Who in the storm of public danger stood
Bold as the rock that baffles ocean's flood,
And when the lion-flag of warfare was unfurl'd
Bade Vict'ry rear it high, and wave it round the world!”

XII. EUROPEAN HOMAGE.

Upon his honour'd Bier, attendant,
With nodding plume and waving pendant,
Alone not Britain sent the bearers of his pall;
But, moved by gallant chivalry
That breathed of heart-nobility,
Seven Marshals graced with Heraldry,
From foreign lands, spontaneously from all,
Have come to tell of his career
Whose prowess friend and foe revere,
Each bearing in the crape-bound hand
Some bâton of extinct command
Monarchs or princes had in life bestow'd
On that brave Chief, to whom their Kingdoms owed
A vaster debt than peerless Rank can pay,
Or golden Orders in their gemm'd array.
Belgium and Prussia, Portugal and Spain,
And distant Russia, from her ice-bound plain,
With Hanover, and England too,
Remember'd mighty Waterloo!
But Austria sent no warrior-chief
Her own to blend with British grief;
Coldly apart from those united kings
Who each their homage to a Hero brings,
Preferr'd to stand, and gracelessly forget
The Past she burdens with an unpaid debt,
Because a woman-scourger in his body felt
A Nemesis for that vile blow he dealt;
Alas! that in an hour like this, the pride
Of less than Littleness was gratified!
And caused a Kingdom thus to stand alone,
Nor honour Him who saved her shaken throne.

XIII. VETERANS AND MOURNERS.

XIV. PROCESSION TO THE CATHEDRAL.

Again we listen! for the cornet's wail
Pours on the wind its melancholy tale.
Upward, o'er the troop-lined way
Flank'd in full and firm array,
Still the banner'd Pomp proceedeth,
Horse and horseman onward leadeth;
Mourning hearts with inward chime
To the Dead March beating time;
Near and nearer still they come
To the Hero's burial-home,
Under the arching shade of yon cathedral-dome.

XV. FAREWELL.

Ere between the church-yard gate
Car and cavalcade have enter'd,
Still for thoughtful eyes await
Such a scene and sight concenter'd,
As all the pomps which fascinate the gaze,
The wreaths of conquest, and the palms of praise
Can rival not,
But sink forgot,
When England's sworded Prince appears;
And, marching by him, touch'd with manly tears,
Saluting warriors slowly move,
And shadow forth the signs of love
On face and feature, which betoken
What quiv'ring words could not have spoken,
But now with tearful eloquence they tell,—
The British army bid their Chief farewell!

XVI. ST. PAUL'S.

XVII.

Thus amidst the boom of bells
Tolling their funereal-knells,
The organ-peal, and cannon-roar
Re-echoed round the temple-door,
With all due pomp of heraldry,
With each befitting pageantry,
'Mid waving banners to his tomb is borne
Great Wellington!—and soon shall wailing horn
And cadence of the muffled drum
Tell the awed Soul the last is come!
For, ducal crown and scutcheon'd bier
Will be engulph'd, and disappear;
Down the chasm, dark and deep
Yearning eyes will strain and weep;
Then, the staff of office broken
Will reveal its sign and token;
And the Garter-King proclaim
More than ever earth-wide fame
Gave heroic Man before,
Or the brightest patriot bore.

THE BURIAL.

XVIII.

XIX. MORAL CONTRAST.

XX.

PATRIOTISM.

THE PEOPLE.

Yet bounds the heart with patriotic bliss
Through all excitements of a morn like this,
To think, how nobly have the People proved
They well can honour whom they wisely loved!
For while they paid to peerless Wellington
A homage Alexander never won,
The lofty and the low, our peasants and our peers
Have met and mingled here, unchill'd by frowns or fears,
In this metropolis of varied Man
Where Nature musters every type she can;
And yet, no impious Wrong hath once profaned
The sabbath-peace of sentiment which reign'd;
But all was just, magnanimous, sincere;
And, heralded by many a votive tear,
The sun went down with no recorded crime
And left the British character sublime!

XXI. THE HERO.

XXII. FINAL APOSTROPHÈ.