 | Griselda |  |
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THE VIGIL.
The Empress spent an hour and a half yesterday with the corpse.—Vide Times.
For her dead by the Black Sea water
England hath praises and prayers;
For her dead by the plague and the slaughter
France payeth pity and tears:
In the South the dead lie a-sleeping,
In the North lies sleeping the dead;
Who sits in the Northland weeping?
Who watches beside that bed?
England hath praises and prayers;
For her dead by the plague and the slaughter
France payeth pity and tears:
In the South the dead lie a-sleeping,
In the North lies sleeping the dead;
Who sits in the Northland weeping?
Who watches beside that bed?
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That silent bed of the silent dead, mourned still and mourner still,
The purple bent o'er purple shent of worship and of will;
The crowned brow bent long and low o'er crownless brow and white,
Where a Queen doth moan for her King o'erthrown in pride of place and might.
The purple bent o'er purple shent of worship and of will;
The crowned brow bent long and low o'er crownless brow and white,
Where a Queen doth moan for her King o'erthrown in pride of place and might.
Low lies he there—a woman's care, a woman's watch and ward,
The star of strife, the lord of life, the swayer of the sword;
A woman's loss to sign with cross, and gaze upon and moan—
He lies, the scorner of the threat, the shaker of the throne.
The star of strife, the lord of life, the swayer of the sword;
A woman's loss to sign with cross, and gaze upon and moan—
He lies, the scorner of the threat, the shaker of the throne.
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Nay, let her weep! he sleeps a sleep tears will not waken now,
Though faster far they fall and star that settled cheek and brow;
Nay, let her sigh! if such must die, strong, terrible, and grand,
Doth she alone make wail and moan—his wife, of all his land!
Though faster far they fall and star that settled cheek and brow;
Nay, let her sigh! if such must die, strong, terrible, and grand,
Doth she alone make wail and moan—his wife, of all his land!
Weep, woman, weep! if dead men sleep sounder when tears fall free;
Weep faster, wife, for that lost life! none weepeth it but thee;
Greet louder, Queen, for what hath been—alone— alone—alone—
Thy bitter pain is Earth's great gain—Earth's music is thy moan.
Weep faster, wife, for that lost life! none weepeth it but thee;
Greet louder, Queen, for what hath been—alone— alone—alone—
Thy bitter pain is Earth's great gain—Earth's music is thy moan.
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“It cannot be that this is he!”—draw down the shroud again!
But yesterday his word had sway o'er mountain, moor, and plain;
And mountain, fountain, moor, and plain—speak louder! take thy breath!
Tell him his Earth is wild with mirth, and shouteth for his death.
But yesterday his word had sway o'er mountain, moor, and plain;
And mountain, fountain, moor, and plain—speak louder! take thy breath!
Tell him his Earth is wild with mirth, and shouteth for his death.
“He shall not die! look! look! the eye; it flashes as of yore!”
Thine own tear, Queen, glistens, I ween, where shone no tear before;
Nay, doubtest thou?—touch breast and brow cold! chilly! through and through,
As under turf the Servian serf his hungry sabres slew.
Thine own tear, Queen, glistens, I ween, where shone no tear before;
Nay, doubtest thou?—touch breast and brow cold! chilly! through and through,
As under turf the Servian serf his hungry sabres slew.
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“Nay! not dead! it is not yet fled the life that dealt with life!
The fingers white are clenched for fight—he dreameth of the strife!
Ho, bring the crown! my Lord, thy town is free; the foe is fled
From steel and shot! What, stirr'st thou not?”—Dead!—queenly mourner, dead!
The fingers white are clenched for fight—he dreameth of the strife!
Ho, bring the crown! my Lord, thy town is free; the foe is fled
From steel and shot! What, stirr'st thou not?”—Dead!—queenly mourner, dead!
Dead! dead! they shout. Empress, watch out thy dreamy vigil there
Beside that prayerless, tearless bed—that unregretted bier,
Louder than sighs our curses rise—curses for plague and pain,
Wrought by that king—that nameless thing—the slayer God hath slain.
Beside that prayerless, tearless bed—that unregretted bier,
Louder than sighs our curses rise—curses for plague and pain,
Wrought by that king—that nameless thing—the slayer God hath slain.
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Mourn thou him dead! that kingly head, we joy to see it sunk;
The bitter will to slay and kill, the soul with slaughter drunk!
Wail for thy star, thy lord of war—beneath thy kiss a clod—
Lone Queen and proud—more long and loud our wail doth go to God.
The bitter will to slay and kill, the soul with slaughter drunk!
Wail for thy star, thy lord of war—beneath thy kiss a clod—
Lone Queen and proud—more long and loud our wail doth go to God.
“The Press.”
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