To the Tiber

Well done, old Flood, that, hiding a clear eye

Beneath thy yellow veil, dost wend among
Those epic hills and dales of seven-topp'd song,
To keep watch on the stone eternity
Whereof the mortal tenants die and die;
One more is gone, the deadliest of the long
Line, the foul vast of whose unmeasured wrong
Twined to its summit in the triple Lie
Of that thrice-cursed Crown. And thou, brave flood,
Enterest a thousand years of carrion
To swill away the deeps of dung and blood,

And drown the garbaged tribes that stank thereon,

That so, at least, the new investiture

Be on clean threshold and a hearth-stone pure.

This Poem, on the death, in the Ashantee War, of Eardley Wilmot,
'who, early in the day, received a wound that entitled him to
leave off fighting, but continued to lead his men till killed by a
second wound' — is the last work of the writer, who, probably,
intended to condense it into a Sonnet.

W here are you, Poets, that a Hero dies

Unsung? He who, when Duty brought too soon

His billet of rest toiled on till he had won

The countersign of Glory? There he lies,

And in the silence of your poesies
He looks a Poem; yea, so made and done
As if the Bardic Heavens had thrown him down
In model to your making. Close his eyes,
That yours may learn him. To fulfil the Law
In Gospel, force the seeds of use to flower
In Beauty, to enman invisible Truth
And then transfigure — this is Poetry.
And this the World and his dear Country saw
Hymned unawares in that unconquer'd youth
Who, scorning to give less than all his power,
Having bled for us, then aspired to die;
And, dying thus, left one more pledge behind
That England may again deserve to lead Mankind.