 | From Sunset Ridge |  |
140
VICTOR EMANUEL
Rome, 1877
It was a voice of woe that said:
Cease all your sports, the King is dead.
The changeful face of human-kind
Grew in an instant sorrow-blind,
Turned inward from the visual ray
That lights the images of day
To that dark plexus, most divine,
In which man's life and death entwine.
Cease all your sports, the King is dead.
The changeful face of human-kind
Grew in an instant sorrow-blind,
Turned inward from the visual ray
That lights the images of day
To that dark plexus, most divine,
In which man's life and death entwine.
We saw him scarce two weeks ago,
Where makes the mount its circling show,
There, blithe and bowing, round he drove,
Giving and taking signs of love.
Where makes the mount its circling show,
There, blithe and bowing, round he drove,
Giving and taking signs of love.
Now shall we see his mortal spoil
All sacred with anointing oil,
The waxen tapers counterfeit
The firmament in lighted state,
The royal ermine drapes the wall,
The royal emblems gathered all.
And here, above the cushioned crown,
The form, supported on the throne,
The passive hands have held their last,
The head and heart are marble cast,
And princes wait, and friars pray,
Around Death's silent holiday.
All sacred with anointing oil,
The waxen tapers counterfeit
The firmament in lighted state,
The royal ermine drapes the wall,
The royal emblems gathered all.
And here, above the cushioned crown,
The form, supported on the throne,
141
The head and heart are marble cast,
And princes wait, and friars pray,
Around Death's silent holiday.
Before they seal him in the tomb,
One shout must break the Nation's gloom,
One generous word of royal cheer
Shall ring in that unburied ear.
If aught could stir the frozen pulse,
The passive frame with life convulse,
'T would be this cry from sorrow sent,
Joy mingling with our ill-content.
The Past doth veil its gracious face,
Th' eternal Present takes its place.
One shout must break the Nation's gloom,
One generous word of royal cheer
Shall ring in that unburied ear.
If aught could stir the frozen pulse,
The passive frame with life convulse,
'T would be this cry from sorrow sent,
Joy mingling with our ill-content.
The Past doth veil its gracious face,
Th' eternal Present takes its place.
Dead father, now thy child will swear
To keep thy charge with fostering care.
Thy battles he shall crown with peace,
With him the latest strife shall cease,
And black and white shall blended be,
Before his radiant majesty.
So, while within the chapel's air
Reign silent Grief and ghostly prayer,
Without, let jocund trumpets ring,
The King is dead—long live the King!
To keep thy charge with fostering care.
Thy battles he shall crown with peace,
With him the latest strife shall cease,
And black and white shall blended be,
Before his radiant majesty.
So, while within the chapel's air
Reign silent Grief and ghostly prayer,
Without, let jocund trumpets ring,
The King is dead—long live the King!
| From Sunset Ridge | |