---

Robert Southey - The Soldier`s Funeral
Work rating: Low

It is the funeral march. I did not think 
That there had been such magic in sweet sounds! 
Hark! from the blacken`d cymbal that dead tone—
It awes the very rabble multitude, 
They follow silently, their earnest brows 
Lifted in solemn thought. `Tis not the pomp 
And pageantry of death that with such force 
Arrests the sense,—the mute and mourning train, 
The white plume nodding o`er the sable hearse, 
Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke 
A serious smile upon the poor man`s cheek 
At pride`s last triumph. Now these measur`d sounds 
This universal language, to the heart 
Speak instant, and on all these various minds 
Compel one feeling.

                                    But such better thoughts 
Will pass away, how soon! and there who here 
Are following their dead comrade to the grave, 
Ere the night fall, will in their revelry 
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life 
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew 
No resting place, no dear delights of home, 
Belike who never saw his children`s face, 
Whose children knew no father, he is gone, 
Dropt from existence, like the withered leaf 
That from the summer tree is swept away, 
Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death 
Who bore him, and already for her son 
Her tears of bitterness are shed: when first 
He had put on the livery of blood, 
She wept him dead to her.

                                    We are indeed
Clay in the potter`s hand! one favour`d mind
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore
The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man
Fram`d with like miracle the work of God, 
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on 
A life of labour, like this soldier here, 
His wonderous faculties bestow`d in vain, 
Be moulded by his fate till be becomes 
A mere machine of murder.

                                  And there are 
Who say that this is well! as God had made 
All things for man`s good pleasure, so of men 
The many for the few! Court-moralists, 
Reverend lip-comforters that once a week 
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they 
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and tho` now 
Toiling and troubled, tho` they pick the crumbs 
That from the rich man`s table fall, at length 
In Abraham`s bosom rest with Lazarus. 
Themselves meantime secure their good things here 
And dine with Dives. These are they O Lord! 
Who in thy plain and simple gospel see 
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined, 
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them 
Who shed their brethren`s blood,—blind at noon day 
As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness!

                                  O my God! 
I thank thee that I am not such as these 
I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart 
That feels, the voice that in these evil days 
That amid evil tongues, exalts itself 
And cries aloud against the iniquity.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.