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 forevermore. III Lead out the pageant, sad and slow, As fits a 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. IV Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Remembering all his greatness in the past. No more in soldier fashion will he greet With lifted hand the gazer in the street. O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute; Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime; Our greatest, yet with least pretense, Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving common sense, And as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime. O good gray head which all men knew, O voice from which their omens all men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fall'n at length that tower of strength, Which stood four-square to all the winds that Such was he whom we deplore! The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er, The great world-victor's victor will be seen no more. . . . VI Who is he that cometh like an honored guest, With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, With a nation weeping and breaking on my rest? Mighty seaman, this is he Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, The greatest sailor since our world began. Now to the roll of muffled drums To thee the greatest soldier comes; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea; His foes were thine; he kept us free; O give him welcome, this is he Worthy of our gorgeous rites, And worthy to be laid by thee; For this is England's greatest son, He that gained a hundred fights Nor ever lost an English gun; This is he that far away Against the myriads of Assaye Clashed with his fiery few and won; And underneath another sun, Warring on a later day, Round affrighted Lisbon drew The treble works, the vast designs Of his labored rampart-lines, Where he greatly stood at bay, Whence he issued forth anew, And ever great and greater grew, Beating from the wasted vines Back to France her banded swarms, Back to France with countless blows, Till o'er the hills her eagles flew, Beyond the Pyrenean pines; Followed up in valley and glen With blare of bugle, clamor of men, Roll of cannon and clash of arms, And England pouring on her foes. Such a war had such a close. Again their ravening eagle rose In anger, wheel'd on Europe shadowing wings, And barking for the thrones of kings; Till one that sought but duty's iron crown, On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down; A day of onsets, of despair! Dashed on every rocky square Their surging charges foamed themselves away; Last the Prussian trumpet blew;