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Dante Gabriel Rossetti - Wellington`s
Work rating: Low

18th November 1852 
                “VICTORY!” 
       So once more the cry must be. 
       Duteous mourning we fulfil 
       In God`s name; but by God`s will, 
       Doubt not, the last word is still 
                “Victory!” 
                Funeral, 
       In the music round this pall, 
       Solemn grief yields earth to earth; 
   But what tones of solemn mirth 
       In the pageant of new birth 
            Rise and fall? 
                For indeed, 
       If our eyes were openèd, 
       Who shall say what escort floats 
       Here, which breath nor gleam denotes,— 
       Fiery horses, chariots 
            Fire-footed? 
                Trumpeter, 
   Even thy call he may not hear; 
       Long-known voice for ever past, 
       Till with one more trumpet-blast 
       God`s assuring word at last 
                Reach his ear. 
                Multitude, 
       Hold your breath in reverent mood: 
       For while earth`s whole kindred stand 
       Mute even thus on either hand, 
       This soul`s labour shall be scann`d 
            And found good. 
                Cherubim, 
       Lift ye not even now your hymn? 
       Lo! once lent for human lack, 
       Michael`s sword is rendered back. 
       Thrills not now the starry track, 
                Seraphim? 
                Gabriel, 
       Since the gift of thine “All hail!” 
       Out of Heaven no time hath brought 
   Gift with fuller blessing fraught 
       Than the peace which this man wrought 
                Passing well. 
                Be no word 
       Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr`d. 
       Say: “`Twas thus in His decrees 
       Who Himself, the Prince of Peace, 
       For His harvest`s high increase 
                Sent a sword.” 
                Veterans, 
   He by whom the neck of France 
       Then was given unto your heel, 
       Timely sought, may lend as well 
       To your sons his terrible 
                Countenance. 
                Waterloo! 
       As the last grave must renew, 
       Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain,— 
       So methinks upon thy plain 
       Falls some presage in the rain, 
            In the dew. 
                And O thou, 
       Watching, with an exile`s brow 
       Unappeased, o`er death`s dumb flood:— 
       Lo! the saving strength of God 
       In some new heart`s English blood 
                Slumbers now. 
                Emperor, 
       Is this all thy work was for?— 
       Thus to see thy self-sought aim, 
   Yea thy titles, yea thy name, 
       In another`s shame, to shame 
               Bandied o`er? 
       Thy great work is but begun. 
       With quick seed his end is rife 
       Whose long tale of conquering strife 
       Shows no triumph like his life 
                Lost and won.
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