THE LETTERS. 1. Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, I peer'd athwart the chancel pane And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet, A band of pain across my brow; 'Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow.' 2. I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song That mock'd the wholesome human heart, And then we met in wrath and wrong, We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry; She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; I saw with half-unconscious eye She wore the colours I approved. 3. She took the little ivory chest, With half a sigh she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest, And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please; As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 4. She told me all her friends had said; I raged against the public liar; She talk'd as if her love were dead, But in my words were seeds of fire. 'No more of love; your sex is known: I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone, The woman cannot be believed. 5. 'Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell (And women's slander is the worst), And you, whom once I loved so well, Thro' you, my life will be accurst.' I spoke with heart, and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarms-- Like torrents from a mountain source We rush'd into each other's arms. 6. We parted: sweetly gleam'd the stars, And sweet the vapour-braided blue, Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, As homeward by the church I drew. The very graves appear'd to smile, So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells; 'Dark porch,' I said, 'and silent aisle There comes a sound of marriage bells.' ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 1. Bury the Great Duke 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. 2. 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. 3. 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.