He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room,
And as he entered, darker grew and deeper
The silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley or dissemble,
But smote the Warden hoar;
Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble,
And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead:
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.
ENGLAND'S DEAD.
BY FELICIA HEMANS.
Son of the ocean isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is reared o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free, the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'erswayed,
With fearful power the noon-day reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.
But let the angry sun
From Heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!
There slumber England's dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far, by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.