WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write, With a pencil of light That illumined the whole volume, her Wellington's name! "Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams such as break from her own dewy skies -- "Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. For though Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot, And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame; -- But oh! there is not One dishonouring blot On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name! "Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest, even @3thou@1 hast yet known; Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood, Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame -- And, bright o'er the flood Of her tears and her blood, Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX by ROBERT BROWNING STANZAS TO THE PO by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A BALLAD OF LONDON (TO H.W. MASSINGHAM) by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE PICTURE-SHOW by SIEGFRIED SASSOON OCTOBER by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS |