Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.

Whom we see not we revere.

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,
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,

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
And break the shore, and evermore

Make and break, and work their will;

Tho' worlds on worlds in myriad myriads roll

Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,

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.-
Gone; but nothing can bereave him

Of the force he made his own

Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,

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.

1852.

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
In ruin, by the mountain road;

How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.

How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell

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.

How young

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;
Till, in a narrow street and dim,

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto,
And drank, and loyally drank to him.

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
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread;

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.