William Allingham (1824–1889)

[See also 1854, 1855, 1865, 1883, 1884 and 1889]

The Triumph

(A Funeral Fancy)

THE sad array wound slowly along the road;

The dusky feathers nodding on the bier

Moved in the solemn distance; spreading near,

The dark and sluggish stream of mourners flowed,

Oft pausing, with slow resumption of the load

Of lazy motion; through the tranquil, clear,

Thin morning air, a sound upon the ear,

Monotonous of feet and wheels abode.

A tyrant's triumph I beheld, I thought;

On that plumed car, unseen of mortal eye

Enthroned; and the slain victim that did lie

Beneath his feet, on those his vassals brought

Dumb fear—each knowing it might be his lot

Next to adorn that awful pageantry.

A Definite Attainment

OF all the things accomplished yet by man

Which is the greatest? In our loftiest aims

No full accomplishment the wise man claims;

In our mechanic marvels we but plan

To live a little easier if we can;

Science a schoolboy is; poetic fames

Are mere appropriations; Nature shames

The old painters, while we even miss their span.

Our greatest fact,—which Nature rivals not,

Adam owned not before he rued the tree,

Nor Greek in templed Athens e'er attained,—

With weakness, doubt—with earth or death unstained;

I deem, the various powers of Music brought

Together in one soul-deep harmony.