Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fall’n at length, that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

Speak no more of his renown. Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him. God accept him, Christ receive him.

Bury the Great Duke With an empire’s lamentation.

The last great Englishman is low.

One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring’d with the azure world he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

Love is and was my lord and king.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.