Then it was fine to see Tom flame,
And argue and prove and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame,
Or a fit of coughing came

O' sudden to spoil Tom's speech.
Ah! Tom had the eyes

to see,

When Tyranny should be sped; "She's coming, she 's coming!" said he; "Courage, boys! wait and see! Freedom's ahead!"

But Tom was little and weak;
The hard hours shook him;
Hollower grew his cheek,
And when he began to speak

The coughing took him.
Erelong the cheery sound

Of his chat among us ceased,

And we made a purse all round,
That he might not starve, at least;

His pain was sorry to see,

Yet there, on his poor sick-bed, "She's coming, in spite of me! Courage, and wait!" cried he, "Freedom's ahead!"

A little before he died,

To see his passion!

"Bring me a paper!" he cried, And then to study it tried

In his old sharp fashion; And, with eyeballs glittering, His look on me he bent, And said that savage thing

Of the lords of the Parliament. Then, darkening, smiling on me, "What matter if one be dead? She's coming, at least!" said he; "Courage, boys! wait and see! Freedom's ahead!"

Ay, now Tom Dunstan 's cold,
The shop feels duller;

Scarce a story is told!
Our talk has lost the old
Red republican color.
But we see a figure gray,

And we hear a voice of death,

And the tallow burns all day,
And we stitch and stitch away

In the thick smoke of our breath;

Ay, here in the dark sit we,

While wearily, wearily,

We hear him call from the dead; "She's coming, she's coming!" said he; "Freedom's ahead!"

How long, O Lord, how long

Doth thy handmaid linger?

JURY 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,

Warriors carry the warrior's pall,

And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

II.

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?

Here, in streaming London's central roar.

Let the sound of those he wrought for,

And the feet of those he fought for,
Echo round his bones forevermore.

III.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,

Let the long, long procession go,

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.

IV.

Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the past.
No more in soldier fashion will he greet
With lifted hand the gazer in the street.
O friends, our chief state-oracle is dead:
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,
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,
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,

O voice from which their omens all men drew,

O iron nerve to true occasion true,

O fallen at length that tower of strength

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore.

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er.

The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more.