



A LAY OF DONCASTER MOOR. 



The bells of ancient Mary-le-bone within their tower swing 



But 'tis not to hail a victory, or greet an infant king : 



They usher in no festival, they honour not a bride ; 



But deep death-notes, from their iron throats, along the breezes ride. 



Within yon ducal portals, so shadowy and grim, 

 A gallant heart lies pulseless, a gallant eye is dim : 

 Lo ! through those portals issuing, in inky black array, 

 Bearing its shrouded passenger, a hearse moves forth to-day. 



E'en hard men's eyes were glistening, as the vault that coffin hid, 

 And the dark earth rattled dismally on its gilded velvet lid : 

 Methinks the world's cold sophistry some hearts not wholly sears, 

 As I viewed the bitter D'Israeli, in an agony of tears. 



Those tears are worthy of thee ; thou wert with him in the van, 

 As his cause became more hopeless and his cheek became more wan : 

 When Cobden overcame him, " No truce !" was still his call. 

 But he, like another Pericles, denied he'd had a fall. 



Throw wide his chamber window, let the noontide light rush in ; 

 'Twill wake not one who erst has slept his wakeful sleep within : 

 That chair and desk will recognise their careworn lord no more, 

 As in winter night, or in grey twilight, he worked till the clock told 

 Four." 



Stern in the path of duty, in his heyday of renown, 



'Mid all his proud imaginings, the Loyal George goes down : 



As England's tars with Kempenfelt, died 'neath their native surf j 



So the death-sweat gathered o'er him, as he trod the springy turf. 



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