Poems: By Menella Bute Smedley | ||
Her spirit passed with the last soft word,
And a voice of weeping around was heard;
The monarch clasped his wondering boy,
And hid his face in the child's bright hair,
He would not that his people's eye
Should look upon his first despair.
And a voice of weeping around was heard;
The monarch clasped his wondering boy,
And hid his face in the child's bright hair,
He would not that his people's eye
Should look upon his first despair.
Poems: By Menella Bute Smedley | ||