THE BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
THE drums were heard, and the funeral notes,
As his corpse to the City was carried;
The soldiers discharged their farewell shots,
Near the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him grandly in noon's full light,
The clay to earth's bosom returning;
With the cheerful sunbeams shining bright,
And within the lantern burning.
Three costly coffins encased his breast,
(In sheet and in shroud they had wound him);
And he lay like a conqueror taking his rest
With his marshal compeers round him.
Many and long were the prayers we said,
And we murmured last words of sorrow;
As we steadfastly gazed on the grave of the dead,
And we sighed, "Who will lead us to-morrow?"
We thought as they filled in his narrow bed,
Of his struggles across the billows;
And we dreamt that all ages would honour the dead,
As a Captain above his fellows.
Lightly men speak of him now that he's gone,
And grudge e'en the recompense paid him:
But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on,
In the tomb where a grateful land laid him.
At length our grievous task was done,
And the masses were slowly retiring,
And the clangour ceased of the minute gun,
That for hours had been steadily firing.
Solemnly, sadly, we left him alone,
With his roll of deeds famous in story;
We carved him a trophy, we praised him in stone,
And to-day—we've forgotten his glory!
OBSERVER.