Things New and Old :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Too long,” they cry, “too long her heart
Dwells in the grave of him she loved:
We bear our sorrows all unmoved;
Why hides she not the life-long smart?

“Why float no echoes blithe and free,
Of clear-voiced mirth and laughing joy?
Why still each lingering hour employ
To nurse a grief that should not be?

“'Tis well; let tears fall thick and fast,
When first we feel the blinding woe;
But changes, chances come and go;
The present smiles; the past is past.

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“Once more let pomps and pageants spread
Bright pennons to the favouring breeze;
Let no soft whisper from the trees
Awake the thought, ‘There sleeps the dead.’

“So once again our lips shall raise
Loud shouts of welcome in the street,
And those who now are dumb will greet
Thy presence with their songs of praise.”

So spake they in their reckless mood,
So murmured in their narrowing heart,
Poor souls that have nor lot nor part
In grief's diviner solitude.

I may not join my voice with theirs,
Nor onward rush with foot profane,
Where still the silent shadows reign,
Dreams of the past, and sighs, and prayers.

I hold with him whose voice hath sung
The memory of his noblest friend,
That life's last quivering pulse should end,
The lips grow cold, and stiff the tongue,

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Ere one we loved should cease to fill
The throne he claimed as rightful king,
Or dim oblivion's darkness fling
Its spell upon the heart and will.

'Tis good to feel the dead are near,
Their calm clear gaze upon us bent,
And so, when wearied, faint, and spent,
To know the love that casts out fear.

'Tis good to track the vales and streams
Where passed the pure and blameless youth,
And love of beauty, law, and truth
Wrapt all the life in golden gleams.

So, brightening to the perfect day,
The years brought wisdom more and more,
And all high thoughts and holiest lore
Shed full-orbed brightness on his way.

So grew the princely soul serene,
In stainless honour, purpose high,
And open brow and fearless eye
Gave proof of spirit pure and keen.

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Large heart, wide thoughts, they made him meet
For loftiest trust, as worthiest friend;
God's gifts, abiding to the end,
Wrought out the harmony complete.

We may not marvel, dare not blame,
That Love should all the past retrace,—
The shadeless truth, the nameless grace,
The silver speech, the golden fame.

And yet, O Queenly Mourner, yet,
The onward path is holier still,
Though bleak the sky, the night air chill,
The sun that made life's daylight set.

To do all task-work they approved
For whom we weep our bitter tears;
Through all the loneliness of years
To live the life we know they loved;

To rise to all the height they trod,
Like them in heart and faith and hope,
And, when the gathering shadows slope,
To find our rest with them in God;

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This still is found the mourner's stay,
The lonely heart finds solace here,
And hope's bright star in æther clear,
Shines, herald of the eternal day.

Rise then, O Queenly Mourner, live;
Make glad this myriad-peopled land;
To each true heart and working hand,
Thy former smile of kindness give.

Meet love with love, and trust with trust,
And be, in all thy people's sight,
Their joy, their glory, their delight,
True sovereign of the brave and just.

So evermore his fame shall grow,
Whom so thou honourest, loved of all,
And at his name, like trumpet-call,
Thy children's children's hearts shall glow.

So faithful found to each high vow,
In blessing still supremely blest,
Fulfil thy calling's high behest,
True Mother of thy people, Thou.

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II. December 14, 1865.

Lo! once again the day comes round,
The day for which a people wept;
From lip to lip the whisper crept,
Like low faint murmur underground,—

The whisper, “Yes, the end is come;
There flits from earth a princely soul,
And slow and sad the death-bells toll,
And muffled beats the funeral drum.”

Five years have flown since then we knew
How grief makes one the hearts of all,
The self-same tears from dim eyes fall,
And mourners' robes the self-same hue.

We watched and waited, some with fear
Lest rough words breathed should waken pain,
And grief that life could scarce sustain
Grow sharper with each lonely year;

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And some with hope that time might bring
The calmness of the twilight hour,
And sorrow own the mightier Power
That comes with healing on its wing;

With hope that through the mist and cloud
One face might shine serenely fair,
Illumine all the dusky air,
And shed a glory o'er the shroud.

Ah! not in vain, nor over-bold,
The wish that from our hearts arose,
The myriad prayers He only knows,
To Whom all wants and griefs are told.

Scarce dried the words I dared to trace,
Unknown to thee, unknown to fame,
Throughout the land there sped, like flame,
The message of thy queenly grace.

Yes, now, when hearts are beating high
With hopes for England's opening years,
Her growing greatness, free from fears,
Her calm, majestic liberty;

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When earnest will and counsel sage
Are met for task of high emprise,
And brighter streaks across the skies
The far-off glorious time presage,—

Now once again thine eye serene
Shall look from out the thick, dark cloud,
Thine ear drink in the welcome loud
From English hearts to England's Queen.

So rough complaints and murmurs low
Shall, hushed to silence, die for shame,
And those erewhile so quick to blame,
With pulse of nobler feeling glow.

Not less, but more, will men revere
The Name that once was joined with thine;
A brighter glory round it shine,
The shadows scattering, year by year.

And so from out the grave and gloom
Shall gleam the light that lives above,
And fresh, bright flowers of hope and love
In that sepulchral darkness bloom.

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So, though thy sorrow may not cease,
Nor time the dreary blank can fill,
Yet, working through all changes still,
The Christ shall bless thee with His peace.