Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . n for ever,—till that hour. My golden work in which I told a truth That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, That numbs the Furys ringlet-snake, and plucks The mortal soul from out immortal hell. Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails at last And perishes as I nmst ; for O Thou, Passionless bride, divine Tranquility, Yearnd after by the wisest of the wise, Who fail to find thee, being as thou art Without one pleasure and without one pain, Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus I woo thee roughly, for thou carest no
Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . n for ever,—till that hour. My golden work in which I told a truth That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, That numbs the Furys ringlet-snake, and plucks The mortal soul from out immortal hell. Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails at last And perishes as I nmst ; for O Thou, Passionless bride, divine Tranquility, Yearnd after by the wisest of the wise, Who fail to find thee, being as thou art Without one pleasure and without one pain, Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not How roughly men may woo thee so they win — Thus —thus : the soul flies out and dies in the air. With that he drove the knife into his side :She heard him raging, heard him fall ; ran in,Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself 298 Lucretius. As having faild in duty to him, shriekd That she but meant to win him back, fell on him, Claspd, kissd him, waild : he answerd, Care not thou!Thy duty ? What is duty ? Fare thee well. thus: the soul flies out and dies in the air. ODE ON THE DEATH OE THE DUKE OFWELLINGTON. PUBWSHED IN 1S52. Bury the Great Duke With an empires lamentation,Let ns bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,Mourning when their leaders carry the warriors pall,And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ?Here, in streaming Londons central the sound of those he wrought the feet of those he fought for,Echo round his bones for evermore. 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. (299) 300 Ode on the Death of 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 stat
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