Peace, his triumph will be sung By some yet unmoulded tongue Far on in summers that we shall not see: Peace, it is a day of pain 235 For one about whose patriarchal knee Late the little children clung: O peace, it is a day of pain For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 240 Ours the pain, be his the gain! More than is of man’s degree Must be with us, watching here At this, our great solemnity. Whom we see not we revere; 245 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: 250 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 255 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 260 Make and break, and work their will; Tho’ world on world in myriad myriads roll Round us, each with different powers, And other forms of life than ours, What know we greater than the soul? 265 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; 270 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, 275 And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him. Speak no more of his renown, Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him, 280 God accept him, Christ receive him. ----- [1] See note on this line. [2] See note on this line. * * * * * =THE DAY DREAM.= THE SLEEPING PALACE. I. The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl’d, 5 Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. II. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. 10 The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, 15 The parrot in his gilded wires. III.