Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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THE DUKE'S FUNERAL.
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134
THE DUKE'S FUNERAL.
November 18, 1852.
So, so, now let the great dead quietly
Go to his mighty tomb,—go join the dust
Of better and worse men: give not the dead
What the dead valued not: those cannon-tongues
Speak out more fitly, poets, than do thine.
Leave ye this statesman-soldier unto Time,
Who passes on the night-winds of God's law,
Leaving the heroes stript for history's page,
Cleansing the grave. Your polished lays, 'twould seem,
Refreshen no man's throat, and he who lies
Upon that cumbrous wain of bronze, unblessed
By Christian symbol or cartouche of death,
Would but have asked you what you meant, have given
Short audience, and hoped you then would go!
There is false inspiration in the theme,
It puts the lamp out: for myself, I fain
Would have constrained a sonnet; but not one
Of all the fourteen twigs would bear green leaves,
Much less fair flowers, ripe truit. Still was he one
Of England's truest sons, and what he ought
That did he worthily, and with strong will.
By trade a warrior he; and, like a lord
Of cotton and consols, by wariest games,
Venturing boldly when the market turns,
Never despairing through stark bankruptcy,
Increases on all sides until his name
Is in kings' mouths, and by his bonds are held
The necks of nations, so succeeded he.
Genius beside him seemed a madman; Truth
Was but contingent, relative to him;
And heroism but a boyish phrase.
This thing he had to do, and this did he,
Depending both on sword and protocol,
On blood and red-tape. Earth to him was but
Leagues for a march, towns cannon'd walls, and men
So many items to be match'd by others,
Harder, steadier; both to serve, to die,
For those ordained to rule. To him the priest
And constable were equals; and our isle—
For he was patriotic—furnished him
Motive at once and commissariat, ruled
His thought and action. Duty was his god,
The Statesman's duty, duty to confirm
The anointed cincture round the brow of kings,
The people in their level, and the plough
Straight in the furrow. Wherefore then should flowers
Be strewn upon his bier, or chant be sung
By poet, requiem or organ-prayer
Be uttered? Let the drums beat and the boom
Of sulphurous cannon o'er the house tops roll:
Let him be lapt in costliest panoply,
Painted all over with new heraldries.
Give him for mourners all those youths who lived
Rejoicing in the smiles of Regent George;
All honourable men, without faith, hope,
Or charity, who generously strewed
The ring and cockpit with unpaid champagne;
All handsome cavaliers, with well-hid sores;—
Give him for mourners all the timorous souls
Who see no providence in coming years;
And give him all the enemies of France;
And those who reverence power; and, more than all,
Erect and foremost in this world-array,
Men of firm hearts and regulated powers,
Who call not unto Hercules, but set
Their sinewy shoulders to the staggering wheels,
And say, ‘Thus as we will it shall it be.’
Go to his mighty tomb,—go join the dust
Of better and worse men: give not the dead
What the dead valued not: those cannon-tongues
Speak out more fitly, poets, than do thine.
Leave ye this statesman-soldier unto Time,
Who passes on the night-winds of God's law,
Leaving the heroes stript for history's page,
Cleansing the grave. Your polished lays, 'twould seem,
Refreshen no man's throat, and he who lies
Upon that cumbrous wain of bronze, unblessed
By Christian symbol or cartouche of death,
Would but have asked you what you meant, have given
Short audience, and hoped you then would go!
There is false inspiration in the theme,
It puts the lamp out: for myself, I fain
Would have constrained a sonnet; but not one
Of all the fourteen twigs would bear green leaves,
Much less fair flowers, ripe truit. Still was he one
135
That did he worthily, and with strong will.
By trade a warrior he; and, like a lord
Of cotton and consols, by wariest games,
Venturing boldly when the market turns,
Never despairing through stark bankruptcy,
Increases on all sides until his name
Is in kings' mouths, and by his bonds are held
The necks of nations, so succeeded he.
Genius beside him seemed a madman; Truth
Was but contingent, relative to him;
And heroism but a boyish phrase.
This thing he had to do, and this did he,
Depending both on sword and protocol,
On blood and red-tape. Earth to him was but
Leagues for a march, towns cannon'd walls, and men
So many items to be match'd by others,
Harder, steadier; both to serve, to die,
For those ordained to rule. To him the priest
And constable were equals; and our isle—
For he was patriotic—furnished him
Motive at once and commissariat, ruled
His thought and action. Duty was his god,
The Statesman's duty, duty to confirm
The anointed cincture round the brow of kings,
The people in their level, and the plough
Straight in the furrow. Wherefore then should flowers
Be strewn upon his bier, or chant be sung
136
Be uttered? Let the drums beat and the boom
Of sulphurous cannon o'er the house tops roll:
Let him be lapt in costliest panoply,
Painted all over with new heraldries.
Give him for mourners all those youths who lived
Rejoicing in the smiles of Regent George;
All honourable men, without faith, hope,
Or charity, who generously strewed
The ring and cockpit with unpaid champagne;
All handsome cavaliers, with well-hid sores;—
Give him for mourners all the timorous souls
Who see no providence in coming years;
And give him all the enemies of France;
And those who reverence power; and, more than all,
Erect and foremost in this world-array,
Men of firm hearts and regulated powers,
Who call not unto Hercules, but set
Their sinewy shoulders to the staggering wheels,
And say, ‘Thus as we will it shall it be.’
The day was won! proud, jubilant, redeemed,
Their thrones again set firm, as one may hope,
All coached or centaur-wise like men of war,
The princes reappeared: and France, perforce,
Worn out with dear-bought glory, welcomed them,
Lighting her topmost windows. Sluggish Seine
Hissed with the falling stars, night burst a-flame
With sputtering splendour over bridge and quay;
And in the new-gilt Tuileries once again,
Propped on her swollen feet, stood Right Divine.
The sharp thin nostril of the high-born swelled,
The diplomat rewoke all clothed in smiles,
Tuftless attachés like stunned oxen stared
At Hapsburgh, Bourbon, Guelph, and Romanoff;
Europe was saved! Once more, as in old times,
The privileged worthies of the world could follow
Each his vocation,—Metternich trepan
Unwary guests as customers for wine;
Talleyrand titillate his black brain with talk
Of omelets,—good innocent old man.
Their thrones again set firm, as one may hope,
All coached or centaur-wise like men of war,
The princes reappeared: and France, perforce,
Worn out with dear-bought glory, welcomed them,
Lighting her topmost windows. Sluggish Seine
Hissed with the falling stars, night burst a-flame
137
And in the new-gilt Tuileries once again,
Propped on her swollen feet, stood Right Divine.
The sharp thin nostril of the high-born swelled,
The diplomat rewoke all clothed in smiles,
Tuftless attachés like stunned oxen stared
At Hapsburgh, Bourbon, Guelph, and Romanoff;
Europe was saved! Once more, as in old times,
The privileged worthies of the world could follow
Each his vocation,—Metternich trepan
Unwary guests as customers for wine;
Talleyrand titillate his black brain with talk
Of omelets,—good innocent old man.
But these are gone like last year's pantomime,
And Eurpoe is again saved,—France again;
A new Napoleon, its last saviour, sweeps
These old things out like cobwebs, sabreing both
Legitimist and red-republican.
So wags the world, so history fills her stage,
And he who with this mighty pomp beneath
A nation's eyes goes tombward, leaves no mark!
And Eurpoe is again saved,—France again;
A new Napoleon, its last saviour, sweeps
These old things out like cobwebs, sabreing both
Legitimist and red-republican.
So wags the world, so history fills her stage,
And he who with this mighty pomp beneath
A nation's eyes goes tombward, leaves no mark!
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