ALFRED THE GREAT. "O Civic Muse, to such a name, ODE ON THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. LAND of rest! where Plenty's form Where no weeping wife, heart-broken, Mourns the husband reft to-day; But peace holds her quiet reign, Thou hast seen far other sight, When the light of evening, flying When o'er England's fair domain Every castle of the great, All are seen in desolation, Nought can aid the prostrate nation, Where is now their champion's might? He, their king, their victor-lord, O'er the sunset-tinted main Fades, a few brief moments darkling, Fairer still to shine again, Lives unknown in solitude, Seeking marsh and forest rude But some faithful friends are near, Holds the Dane his festival, And with fields of carnage sated Till no thought of war remains, When the shouts are rising high Comes a wandering minstrel, praying Leave to touch his humble lyre, And his tuneful art displaying, To the praises of the strong. Seems he but of low degree, Yet there shows a noble bearing, In the eye, so long despairing, In the voice that rings so high, "I see the purple wine outpoured, "No longer in his native home "Warriors! when sinks tomorrow's sun, Another victory nobly won, And shivered helm and sword and shield Left on the fatal battle field, Better than feast or harper's strain Shall tell the terrors of the Dane!" Past the song of mirth and glee, And instead, the greensward gory, When the land again was free, Hark! the prayer to heaven ascending Is by priest and warrior poured, Breaking on Eve's solemn rest, So was Peace and Joy restored By the gallant friends that wielded By the fleet that e'er hath shielded These white coasts from hostile bands; Till the storm had ceased to rave, And the king, beyond the grave, Found the rest that waits the brave! Nothing but the arm of might For the soul, that shunned not duty, A thousand years have passed by, Glorious not in arms alone : Art and skill thine empire own! Now, where nation vies with nation Pouring in Earth's varied store, Where a kingdom's population Crowds through many an open door, May thy love, unseen, be near, Joined with his, upon whose bier Late was shed a nation's tear. |