Wellington

By Lord Beaconsfield (1804–1881)

NOT only that thy puissant arm could bind

The tyrant of a world: and, conquering Fate,

Enfranchise Europe, do I deem thee great;

But that in all thy actions I do find

Exact propriety: no gusts of mind

Fitful and wild, but that continuous state

Of ordered impulse mariners await

In some benignant and enriching wind,—

The breath ordained of Nature. Thy calm mien

Recalls old Rome, as much as thy high deed;

Duty thine only idol, and serene

When all are troubled; in the utmost need

Prescient; thy country’s servant ever seen,

Yet sovereign of thyself, whate’er may speed.