A Nation's Wealth

ENGLAND, thou hast many a precious dower;
But of all treasures it is thine to claim,

Prize most the memory of each sainted name,
That in thy realm, in field or hall or bower
Hath wrought high deeds or utter'd words of
power-

Unselfish warrior, without fear or blame-
Statesman, with sleepless watch and steadfast aim
Holding his country's helm in perilous hour-
Poet, whose heart is with us to this day
Embalm'd in song—or Priest, who by the ark
Of faith stood firm in troublous times and dark.
Call them not dead, my England! such as they
Not were but are; within us each survives,
And lives an endless life in others' lives.

J. K. Ingram.

The Pilot that weathered the

storm

F hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep,

The sky if no longer dark tempests deform, When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?

No!-here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm:

And shall not his memory to Britain be dear,
Whose example with envy all nations behold?

A Statesman unbiass'd by interest or fear,

By power uncorrupted, untainted by gold!

Who, when terror and doubt thro' the universe reigned,
When rapine and treason their standards unfurl'd,
The heart and the hopes of his country maintained,
And one kingdom preserved midst the wreck of the
world!

Unheeding, unthankful, we bask in the blaze,

While the beams of the sun in full majesty shine: When he sinks into twilight with fondness we gaze, And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline.

So, Pitt, when the course of thy greatness is o'er,
Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recall;
Now justly we prize thee, when lost we deplore;
Admired in thy zenith, but loved in thy fall.

O! take then, for dangers by wisdom repell'd,
For evils by courage and constancy braved,
O take, for a throne by thy counsels upheld,

The thanks of a people thy firmness has saved.

And O! if again the rude whirlwind should rise,
The dawning of peace should fresh darkness deform;
The regrets of the good and the fears of the wise,
Shall turn to the pilot that weather'd the storm.

George Canning.

Ode on the Death of the Duke

B

of Wellington

URY the Great Duke

With an Empire's lamentation,
Let us bury the Great Duke

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty
nation,

Mourning when their leaders fall,

Warriors carry the warrior's pall,

And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?
Here, in streaming London's central roar.
Let the sound of those he wrought for,
And the feet of those he fought for,

Echo round his bones for evermore.

Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,

With banner and with music, with soldier and with

priest,

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?

Mighty Seaman, this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea.

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,

The greatest sailor since our world began.

Now, to the roll of muffled drums,

To thee the greatest soldier comes;
For this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea;
His foes were thine; he kept us free;
O give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee;

For this is England's greatest son,
He that gain'd a hundred fights,
Nor ever lost an English gun;
This is he that far away
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 labour'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, clamour 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 wings,
And barking for the thrones of kings;

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down;

A day of onsets of despair!

Dash'd on every rocky square

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew;

Thro' the long-tormented air

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray,

And down we swept and charged and overthrew.

So great a soldier taught us there,
What long-enduring hearts could do
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo!
Mighty Seaman, tender and true,

And pure as he from taint of craven guile,
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,
If aught of things that here befall
Touch a spirit among things divine,

If love of country move thee there at all,

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine!
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice
In full acclaim,

A people's voice,

The proof and echo of all human fame,

A people's voice, when they rejoice

At civic revel and pomp and game,

Attest their great commander's claim

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him,
Eternal honour to his name.

Hush, the Dead March wails in the people'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,
And that he wears a truer crown

Than any wreath that man can weave him.
Speak no more of his renown,

Lay your earthly fancies down,

And in the vast cathedral leave him.
God accept him, Christ receive him.

Tennyson.