The Burial of Robert Browning

UPON St. Michael’s Isle They laid him for awhile That he might feel the Ocean’s full embrace, And wedded be To that wide sea— The subject and the passion of his race. As Thetis, from some lovely underground Springing, she girds him round With lapping sound And silent space: Then, on more honor bent, She sues the firmament, And bids the hovering, western clouds combine To spread their sabled amber on her lustrous brine. It might not be He should lie free Forever in the soft light of the sea; For lo! one came, Of step more slow than fame, Stooped over him—we heard her breathe his name— And as the light drew back, Bore him across the track Of the subservient waves that dare not foil That veiled, maternal figure of its spoil. Ah! where will she put by Her journeying majesty? She hath left the lands of the air and sun; She will take no rest till her course be run. Follow her far, follow her fast, Until at last, Within a narrow transept led, Lo! she unwraps her face to pall her dead. ’T is England who has travelled far, England who brings Fresh splendor to her galaxy of Kings. We kiss her feet, her hands, Where eloquent she stands; Nor dare to lend A wailful choir about the poet dumb Who is become Part of the glory that her sons would bleed To save from scar; Yea, hers in very deed As Runnymede, Or Trafalgar.