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Must be with us, watching here
Whom we see not we revere.
and we refrain
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility
As befits a solemn fane :
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,
Until we doubt not that for one so true
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
Make and break, and work their will;
Tho' worlds on worlds in myriad myriads roll
Round us, each with different powers,
What know we greater than the soul ?
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears : The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears ; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
He is gone who seem'd so great.-
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave him.
But speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him.
God accept him, Christ receive him.
O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine,
In lands of palm and southern pine;
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.
What Roman strength Turbìa show'd
How like a gem, beneath, the city
How richly down the rocky dell
To meet the sun and sunny waters,
That only heaved with a summer swell.
What slender campanili grew
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue;
Where, here and there, on sandy beaches A milky-bell’d amaryllis blew.
Columbus seem'd to rove,
Yet present in his natal grove,
Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove,
Now pacing mute by ocean's rim;
I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto,
Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Not the clipt palm of which they boast;
But distant colour, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citadel on the coast,
Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen
A light amid its olives green;
Or olive-hoary cape in ocean;
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,
Where oleanders flush'd the bed
And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten Of ice, far off on a mountain ead.
We loved that hall, tho' white and cold,
Those niched shapes of noble mould,
A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old.