# Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Funeral of the Duke of Wellington

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 ​the wealth of nations, to enter into statistical research, and to encounter each other in fiscal controversy—we present to the world the most sublime and touching spectacle that human circumstances can well produce—the spectacle of a senate mourning a hero!"—Disraeli's Speech on the Death of the Duke of Wellington.
No sounds of labour vexed the quiet air From morn till eve. The people all stood still, And earth won back a Sabbath. There were none Who cared to buy or sell and make a gain For one whole day. All felt as they had lost A father, and were fain to keep within, Silent or speaking little. Such a day An old man sees but once in all his time.
The simplest peasant in the land that day Knew somewhat of his country's grief. He hoard The knell of England's hero from the tower Of the old church, and asked the cause and sighed. The veteran who had bled on some far field Fought o'er the battle for the thousandth time, With quaint addition; and the little child, That stopped his sport to run and ask his sire What it all meant, picked out the simple tale,— How he who drove the French from Waterloo, And crushed the tyrant of the world, and made His country great and glorious,—he was dead. All, from the simplest to the stateliest, knew But one sad story,—from the cottar's bairn Up to the fair-haired lady on the throne, Who sat within and sorrowed for her friend; And every tear she shed became her well, And seemed more lovely in her people's eyes Than all the starry wonders of her crown.
But as the waters of the Northern Sea (When one strong wind blows steady from the pole) Come hurrying to the shore, and far and wide As eye can reach the creaming waves press on Impatient; or, as trees that bow their tops One way when Alpine hollows bring one way The blast whereat they quiver in the vale, So millions pressed to swell the general grief One way;—for once all men seemed one way drawn; Or if, through evil hap and unforeseen Some stayed behind, their hearts; at least, were there The whole day through—could think of nothing else— Hear nothing else—see nothing!
In his cell The student saw the pageant; spied from far The long-drawn pomp which reached from west to east Slow moving in the silence—casque and plume And banner waving sad; the marvellous state Of heralds, soldiers, nobles, foreign powers, With baton or with pennon: princes, peers, Judges, and dignitaries of Church and State, And warriors grown grey-headed; every form Which greatness can assume or honour name, Peaceful or warlike,—each and all were there, Trooping in sable sorrow after him Who slept serene upon his funeral car In glorious rest!. . . . A child might understand That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief Wide as the world. A child might understand That all mankind were sorrowing for one! That banded nations had conspired to pay This homage to the chief who drew his sword At the command of Duty; kept it bright Through perilous days; and, soon as victory smiled, Laid it unsullied, in the lap of Peace.
Such things, and more, the student spied; as dull Of heart were he who, hearing through the day The doleful clang from many a tower and spire, (As if in every college one were dead!) Could sit with slumbering fancy; hear no strains Of melancholy music: see no shade Cast (as by nodding plumes) across his book, And hiding all the sense; yea, pour no prayer Voiceless, yet hearty as ineloquent; Unconscious to himself of what he said;—
"God, rest his gallant spirit! give him peace! And crown his brows with amaranth,—and set The saintly palm-branch in his strong right-hand! Amid the conquering armies of the skies Give him high place for ever! let him walk O'er meads of better asphodel; and be Where dwell the single-hearted and the wise, The saviours of their country!—faithful men, And loyal to their Prince, and true and brave; Men like himself; severely, simply good, Who scorned to be ambitious,—scorned the snares Of office, station, rank, but stood sublime In natural greatness. . . . O Eternal King— O Father of all spirits,—give him peace!"