The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear :
'O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on the prize is near.'

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;

By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.

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THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

In her ear he whispers gaily,

'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well.'

She replies, in accents fainter,
'There is none I love like thee.'
He is but a landscape-painter,
And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,

Presses his without reproof:
Leads her to the village altar,

And they leave her father's roof. 'I can make no marriage present : Little can I give my wife.

Love will make our cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life.'

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They by parks and lodges going

See the lordly castles stand: Summer woods, about them blowing,

Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well,
'Let us see these handsome houses
Where the wealthy nobles dwell.'
So she goes by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid

Lay betwixt his home and hers;

Parks with oak and chestnut shady,

Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady,

Built for pleasure and for state.

All he shows her makes him dearer :
Evermore she seems to gaze

On that cottage growing nearer,

Where the twain will spend their days.

O but she will love him truly!

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And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
'All of this is mine and thine.'
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he.

All at once the colour flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove : But he clasped her like a lover,

And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank :

Shaped her heart with woman's meekness

To all duties of her rank:

And a gentle consort made he,

And her gentle mind was such

That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her,

And perplex'd her, night and morn,

With the burthen of an honour

Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
And she murmur'd, 'Oh, that he
Were once more that landscape-painter,
Which did win my heart from me!'
So she droop'd and droop'd before him,
Fading slowly from his side :

Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died.

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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.

II.

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.

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III.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,

Let the long long procession go,

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.

IV.

Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the Past.
No more in soldier fashion will he greet
With lifted hand the gazer in the street.
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute :
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,
Whole in himself, a common good.
Mourn for the man of amplest influence,
Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common-sense,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.

O good gray head which all men knew,

O voice from which their omens all men drew,

O iron nerve to true occasion true,

O fall'n at length that tower of strength

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew !
Such was he whom we deplore.

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er.

The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more.

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