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65
May 1.
WELLINGTON.
Not idly, eldest sages of our land,
Rang forth the rapture of your prophet-lyre,
“Arthur shall come again! from Arthur's hand
Deliverance still his Britain shall require!
A stately pillar of strong, steadfast fire
Arthur upon her darkened hour shall blaze:
His awful sword shall quell her foemen's ire,
Stroke upon stroke, and her dimmed glory raise
To an imperial glow far in those latter days.”
Rang forth the rapture of your prophet-lyre,
“Arthur shall come again! from Arthur's hand
Deliverance still his Britain shall require!
A stately pillar of strong, steadfast fire
Arthur upon her darkened hour shall blaze:
His awful sword shall quell her foemen's ire,
Stroke upon stroke, and her dimmed glory raise
To an imperial glow far in those latter days.”
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On rolled the ages: lo! the hero woke.
Her Arthur wore his conqueror's robe unrent,
Whether with scanty band forlorn he broke
The thronging squadrons of the Orient,
Or the calm patience of his valour lent
To pluck from the fierce Gaul that Spanish prey.
Each laurelled leader down before him went;
From strength to strength he passed, a wondrous way,
Till Victory's faint, dim dawn flamed into fair, full day.
Her Arthur wore his conqueror's robe unrent,
Whether with scanty band forlorn he broke
The thronging squadrons of the Orient,
Or the calm patience of his valour lent
To pluck from the fierce Gaul that Spanish prey.
Each laurelled leader down before him went;
From strength to strength he passed, a wondrous way,
Till Victory's faint, dim dawn flamed into fair, full day.
Within the impenetrable lines he stayed,
And lo! the fiery, rushing foe recoiled;
Anon of tented field he trial made,
And constant Victory on her wooer smiled.
He smote the ruthless smiters sore, he spoiled
The spoilers utterly! their feet no more
Stained the Hesperian fields so long defiled;
Back o'er the Pyrenees their rout he bore,
And on the fields of France his robe of victory wore.
And lo! the fiery, rushing foe recoiled;
Anon of tented field he trial made,
And constant Victory on her wooer smiled.
He smote the ruthless smiters sore, he spoiled
The spoilers utterly! their feet no more
Stained the Hesperian fields so long defiled;
Back o'er the Pyrenees their rout he bore,
And on the fields of France his robe of victory wore.
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But O! it gleamed most glorious on that plain
Where lay the robe of the world's victor rent;
There war's great master wrought his best in vain,
There France her furious valour vainly lent;
There with the brazen-throated roar was blent
The tramp of her on-rushing cuirassiers;
But lo! that deadly rain was idly spent;
On rode, back reeled those fiery cavaliers;
Calm round their Arthur stood the unbroken islanders!
Where lay the robe of the world's victor rent;
There war's great master wrought his best in vain,
There France her furious valour vainly lent;
There with the brazen-throated roar was blent
The tramp of her on-rushing cuirassiers;
But lo! that deadly rain was idly spent;
On rode, back reeled those fiery cavaliers;
Calm round their Arthur stood the unbroken islanders!
Then on they rushed—but theirs no backward spring!
At length they smote—but theirs no broken blow!
O shivered army! O discrownëd king!
O world-bestrider shrunken and laid low!
O Time! thou canst not match this overthrow.
O crownëd Britain! with thine Arthur vie;
Confront his glory with thy heart's great glow!
Yes, raise his honours as his trophies high!
The measure of his meed make thine own majesty!
At length they smote—but theirs no broken blow!
O shivered army! O discrownëd king!
O world-bestrider shrunken and laid low!
O Time! thou canst not match this overthrow.
O crownëd Britain! with thine Arthur vie;
Confront his glory with thy heart's great glow!
Yes, raise his honours as his trophies high!
The measure of his meed make thine own majesty!
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O pure-eyed Peace! let fall almost a smile
Upon this most white-handed warrior!
Wrong not his greatness with the guilty style,
The gloomy glory of a conqueror!
O wondrous sword, ne'er drawn but in just war,
Ne'er laid aside till bright with Victory's beam!
O gracious sword, that saints may least abhor!
O mighty sword, that men most glorious deem!
O drawn but to o'ercome! O drawn but to redeem!
Upon this most white-handed warrior!
Wrong not his greatness with the guilty style,
The gloomy glory of a conqueror!
O wondrous sword, ne'er drawn but in just war,
Ne'er laid aside till bright with Victory's beam!
O gracious sword, that saints may least abhor!
O mighty sword, that men most glorious deem!
O drawn but to o'ercome! O drawn but to redeem!
The statutes of his England well he kept,
That faithful, glorious servant: at her word
His sword awoke; at her command it slept.
Not once the gale of his great glory stirred
The calm of his obedience; most preferred,
The splendour of his faithfulness he wore.
Still, still the hand she felt, the voice she heard
Of her true servant; still with him he bore
The humbleness that made his majesty the more.
That faithful, glorious servant: at her word
His sword awoke; at her command it slept.
Not once the gale of his great glory stirred
The calm of his obedience; most preferred,
The splendour of his faithfulness he wore.
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Of her true servant; still with him he bore
The humbleness that made his majesty the more.
O Fairy Land! no Arthur thus sublime
Walks through thy golden fields. O Latter Days!
How the dim glory of that Olden Time
Faints 'neath the splendour of your steadfast blaze!
Britain! outsing those old prophetic lays!
Behold thine Arthur more than come again!
Thy song, thy soul unto his stature raise;
The mighty name lift on a mighty strain,
And with thine Arthur still the ages entertain!
Walks through thy golden fields. O Latter Days!
How the dim glory of that Olden Time
Faints 'neath the splendour of your steadfast blaze!
Britain! outsing those old prophetic lays!
Behold thine Arthur more than come again!
Thy song, thy soul unto his stature raise;
The mighty name lift on a mighty strain,
And with thine Arthur still the ages entertain!
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