He spoke: the mother smil’d, but half in tears, Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, And claspt and kiss’d her, and they rode away. 825
Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb’d The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 830 Look’d the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, By the flat meadow, till she saw them come; And then descending met them at the gates, Embrac’d her with all welcome as a friend, And did her honour as the Prince’s bride, 835 And cloth’d her for her bridals like the sun; And all that week was old Caerleon gay, For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, They twain were wedded with all ceremony.
And this was on the last year’s Whitsuntide. 840 But Enid ever kept the faded silk, Remembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey toward her, as himself 845 Had told her, and their coming to the court.
And now this morning when he said to her, “Put on your worst and meanest dress,” she found And took it, and array’d herself therein.
=ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.=
Bury the Great Duke With an empire’s lamentation, Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, Mourning when their leaders fall, 5 Warriors carry the warrior’s pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.
Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore? Here, in streaming London’s central roar. Let the sound of those he wrought for, 10 And 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, 15 And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful martial music blow; The last great Englishman is low.
Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 20 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, 25 Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime, Our greatest yet with least pretence, Great in council and great in war, 30 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, 35 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 blew! Such was he whom we deplore. 40 The long self-sacrifice of life is o’er. The great World-victor’s victor will be seen no more.