He listened aghast!—all was silent again;
He searched by the beams which his lamp feebly shed,
And found his brave son amid hundreds of slain,
The corse of a comrade supporting his head!
"My Henry!"—the sorrowful parent exclaimed,
"Has fate rudely withered thy laurels so soon?"
The youth ope'd his eyes as he heard himself named,
And awoke for awhile from his death-boding swoon.
He gazed on his father, who knelt by his side,
And seizing his hand, pressed it close to his heart;
"Thank heaven, thou art here, my dear father!" he cried;
"For soon! ah, too soon, we for ever must part!
"Though death early calls me from all that I love!
From glory, from thee, yet perhaps 'twill be given
To meet thee again in yon regions above!"
His eyes beamed with hope as he fixed them on heaven.
"Then let not thy bosom with vain sorrow swell;
Ah! check, ere it rises, the heart-rending sigh!
I fought for my king!—for my country!—I fell
In defence of their rights: and I glory to die!"
The Funeral of the Duke of Wellington.
This poem on the day of the funeral of the late Duke of Wellington in 1852, was published anonymously. It was dated from "Oriel College, Oxford."
"The Duke of Wellington left to his countrymen a great legacy—greater even than his glory. He left them the contemplation of his character. I will not say his conduct revived the sense of duty in England. I will not say that of our country. But that his conduct inspired public life with a purer and more masculine tone I cannot doubt. His career rebukes restless vanity, and reprimands the irregular ebullitions of a morbid egotism. I doubt not that among all orders of Englishmen—from those with the highest responsibilities of our society to those who perform the humblest duties—I daresay there is not a man who in his toil and his perplexity has not sometimes thought of the Duke, and found in his example support and solace. Though he lived so much in the hearts and minds of his countrymen—though he occupied such eminent posts and fulfilled such august duties—it was not till he died that we felt what a place he filled in the feelings and thoughts of the people of England. Never was the influence of real greatness more completely asserted than on his decease. In an age whose boast of intellectual equality flatters all our self-complacencies, the world suddenly acknowledged that it had lost the greatest of men; in an age of utility, the most industrious and common-sense people in the world could find no vent for their woe and no representative for their sorrow but the solemnity of a pageant; and we—we who have met here for such different purposes—to investigate the sources of
