The death of the prince consort :: :: University of Virginia Library

The death of the prince consort

A Poem, which obtained the Chancellor's medal at the Cambridge commencement, M.DCCC.LXII. By James Rhoades

Rhoades, James (1841-1923)

[section]

THE DEATH OF THE PRINCE CONSORT.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

THE DEATH OF THE PRINCE CONSORT.

“Not Lancelot, nor another.”

I

Creator wise, we look for peace,
In grief thy creatures look to Thee;
Their tears Thou knowest, whence they be,
And Thou canst make their tears to cease.

II

Thou troublest them; they are afraid:
Their breath Thou takest, and they die;
Thy breath Thou breathest from on high
Upon them, Lord, and they are made:

III

And when at length they surely think,
‘Our house shall stand for many years,’
Thou sendest them the bread of tears,
And plenteousness of tears to drink.

IV

Thou gavest him whom we deplore;
Thou calledst, and he could not stay;
It seemed thou calledst him away
Ere yet his work of life was o'er.

V

Of such and such who lived and died,
We say, ‘Their works with them depart’;
But he, though with Thee where Thou art,
Still surely helpeth at our side:

VI

Still surely dwells his gracious light,
Albeit its course on earth be run,
As, after day, the fallen sun
Shines on us through the stars of night.

VII

So when the waking world has found
Hereafter what it dreams not yet,
And every year some truth shall get,
To be for men a higher round

VIII

Of that great ladder-stair that climbs
To heaven; and things, that darkly seem,
Shall be illumined in the beam
Of purer manners, nobler times;

IX

When souls with larger motions move,
And minds to wiser wisdom rise,
In this shall he behold his prize,
In these the labours of his love.

X

For not, where battle-clouds are curled,
Of victory had he drunk his fill,
Nor triumphed in his single will
To shake the nations of the world;

XI

Nor sought at all the name of ‘great,’
To trample those he moved among,
Nor with divinely-gifted tongue
Controlled the Council of the State:

XII

But rather far from clique and clan
Ran separate, quit of blame or praise,
And gave himself to after days,
As perfect father, purest man.

XIII

Who thought it more than any name
To open wider doors to truth,
And manners that ennoble youth,
And useful arts that lead to fame:

XIV

And, such high hope before him still,
Did this his constant purpose make,
Nor suffered aught to storm and take
The fencèd castle of the Will.

XV

But when we looked, the man was gone!
And down to earth our hopes were hurled;
And round about the rolling world
One deadly message flashed alone;

XVI

To many a fortress frowning far,
To many a shining capital,
To where their streams in thunder fall,
And all the land is waste with war;

XVII

Where hues of all divinest flowers
Beneath an endless summer burn,
And far above them God doth turn
Another face of heaven than ours.

XVIII

Oh bitter gain of many tears
To those he leaveth fatherless!
Oh loss of comfort in distress
That shall not change with changing years!

XIX

No more to hear those words of truth,
Nor see the hand that loved to guide!
Remembering how they walked beside
The friend, the father of their youth;

XX

Remembering how he led them still
So gently up the winding ways,
And set their feet in paths of praise,
And gladdened all the weary hill.

XXI

And one there is—the nearest she
And dearest unto him that's gone;
Who grieving still must grieve alone,
Who may not yet consolèd be:

XXII

Oh tossed about from ill to ill!
Oh twice bereaved, but not of all!
Thy people's tears for thee shall fall:
Thy children's love is left thee still.

XXIII

Thy people's tears—But how should we,
In presence of so vast a grief,
Too vast for all but God's relief,
Speak comfortable words to thee?

XXIV

For we, who know not what we know,
Must lean on Him where all is night,
If haply He will lend us light
To see the distant end of woe,

XXV

And make the tears His sadness brings
Not all so idle as they seem;
That through them we may catch a gleam
Beyond ourselves of nobler things.—

XXVI

For humanly we shrink from thee,
Oh Death, as by the barren sands
Some tender pine with outstretched hands
Shrinks from yon waste and bitter sea;

XXVII

Where, leaving all it loved before,
Companion trees, and mossy home,
It shall at length be taught to roam
Those strange and stormy waters o'er.

XXVIII

But thou, pure spirit, that dost abide
In that vast home we know not where,
If heaven to earth may minister,
Perchance art with her still to guide.

XXIX

We cannot guess thee, perfect, whole;
We know in part, we see not all:
Only through night's dark deep there fall
Some meteor-fragments of the soul.

XXX

And what they were we cannot tell,
Or, reunited, what they are;
How grandly rolled their primal star,
How high the height from which they fell.

XXXI

Yet not the less, oh not the less,
We, nothing doubting, sweetly trust
The spirit slumbers not in dust,
Steeped in a blank forgetfulness.

XXXII

Not quite forgetting, nor forgot,
But seeming more divinely near,
As how much more divinely dear
Than when we loved and missed them not!—

XXXIII

Behold! he was not bowed with years,
Nor wearied of the ways of men,
Nor waxen old with labour. Then,
Even then were cause for all our tears.

XXXIV

But now when youthful fire had burned
Within him to a stiller strength,
And hope seemed fullest, and at length
All jealous doubts were overturned;

XXXV

And he by noble life had won
The praise of those who thought to blame,
And stood a man of self-less aim
Amidst a people not his own;

XXXVI

Then suddenly he passed away;
Nor yet his loss we fully know,
But this—that our great strength is low,
The man of men we mourn to-day.

XXXVII

For surely we may well deplore,
Whose loved abodes were known to him;
Beneath whose cloistered arches dim
Shall pass those silent feet no more:

XXXVIII

Where greatly lived from ancient years
The mighty men of thought sublime,
With one who clomb where none could climb,
And read the wonders of the spheres;

XXXIX

And those great bards whose echoes ring
Round rafters of each dusky hall,
And he that shall out-sing them all,
The blameless bard of blameless king.

XL

And some there are in high estate,
And they of lordliest powers possessed;
Whereof is one beyond the rest
At once so noble and so great,

XLI

That who beside should think to stand
Above us where our Prince hath stood,
With head and heart to work us good,
And guard our honour through the land?

XLII

But we shall think on him that's gone,
As on a saintly beam, that falls
Within some dim Cathedral-walls,
To one who lingers there alone,

XLIII

Absorbed where yon reluctant day
Steals with last looks divinely down,
And lights the grim Crusader's frown
Beside him, on the marble way;

XLIV

Fires half the arches rosy-red,
And lingers up the altar stair,
And faintly fading leaves him there
Alone with darkness and the dead.

XLV

Oh Thou, on whom we build our trust
That, when the clay returns to clay,
The breath thou breathest soars away,
And is not holden of the dust;

XLVI

We ask for one whom Thou hast grieved;
Forsake her not when most forlorn:
She knew to mourn with those that mourn;
Be near her when herself bereaved.

XLVII

We ask for her that she may see
Thy comfort through the lonely years:
Be thou a sun to draw her tears
From this dark valley up to Thee.

XLVIII

And for her People and her State,
This prayer her People sorrowing bring—
‘Continue, Lord, from Queen to King,
The English heart that made her great.

XLIX

And with such rulers keep us free
From foreign fear, from social stain;
And send us sunshine after rain,
That so thy flowers may bloom to Thee.’