Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Here you will find the Poem Wellington's Funeral of poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Wellington's Funeral

18th November 1852 
?VICTORY!? 
So once more the cry must be. 
Duteous mourning we fulfil 
In God's name; but by God's will, 
Doubt not, the last word is still 
?Victory!? 
Funeral, 
In the music round this pall, 
Solemn grief yields earth to earth; 
But what tones of solemn mirth 
In the pageant of new birth 
Rise and fall? 
For indeed, 
If our eyes were openèd, 
Who shall say what escort floats 
Here, which breath nor gleam denotes,? 
Fiery horses, chariots 
Fire-footed? 
Trumpeter, 
Even thy call he may not hear; 
Long-known voice for ever past, 
Till with one more trumpet-blast 
God's assuring word at last 
Reach his ear. 
Multitude, 
Hold your breath in reverent mood: 
For while earth's whole kindred stand 
Mute even thus on either hand, 
This soul's labour shall be scann'd 
And found good. 
Cherubim, 
Lift ye not even now your hymn? 
Lo! once lent for human lack, 
Michael's sword is rendered back. 
Thrills not now the starry track, 
Seraphim? 
Gabriel, 
Since the gift of thine ?All hail!? 
Out of Heaven no time hath brought 
Gift with fuller blessing fraught 
Than the peace which this man wrought 
Passing well. 
Be no word 
Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd. 
Say: ?'Twas thus in His decrees 
Who Himself, the Prince of Peace, 
For His harvest's high increase 
Sent a sword.? 
Veterans, 
He by whom the neck of France 
Then was given unto your heel, 
Timely sought, may lend as well 
To your sons his terrible 
Countenance. 
Waterloo! 
As the last grave must renew, 
Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain,? 
So methinks upon thy plain 
Falls some presage in the rain, 
In the dew. 
And O thou, 
Watching, with an exile's brow 
Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood:? 
Lo! the saving strength of God 
In some new heart's English blood 
Slumbers now. 
Emperor, 
Is this all thy work was for?? 
Thus to see thy self-sought aim, 
Yea thy titles, yea thy name, 
In another's shame, to shame 
Bandied o'er? 
Thy great work is but begun. 
With quick seed his end is rife 
Whose long tale of conquering strife 
Shows no triumph like his life 
Lost and won.