A Mirror of Faith :: :: University of Virginia Library

She cometh in pomp and pride;
And yet no baron, with knightly mien,
Heralds the progress of England's Queen:
No pages stand waiting the royal beck,
By the palfrey that arches his milk-white neck:
No flowers are strew'd in the throng'd highway
No village is out in its holiday,
As the horsemen onward ride.

Do ye think on her glories past?
How she came to our country the Royal Bride,
The lov'd of Guienne, to be England's pride;
And pleasures waited to tend her hours,
Her seasons all spring, and her paths all flowers:
How we welcomed her next to Edward's throne,
Who had saved his life, and had risk'd her own?
Then ye well may wait the last.

Aye! turn not aside! though now
She is passing forth with her mournful train,
The journey she shall not return again:
Though the hands that love so oft had pressed
Are folded in prayer on her quiet breast:
Who held her dearest would now least dare
To gaze on the face that was late so fair,
Or to kiss his loved one's brow.

Yes! look, and do not fear!
The eye may be dim, and the heart be sore:
But the silver Cross goes on before;
And Holy Church hath Her banners high,
To emblem Her Saviour's Victory:
He hath the Keys of Death and Hell;
And She in His Might, hath power as well,
To dry the Mourner's tear!

She goes not from life to death!
Nay, rather she passeth from death to life,
To a region of peace from a land of strife:
And the Priests, as they tune the strong bataunt,
The Expectans Expectavi chaunt:
And they say the Mass, and they give the dole,
For the light, and the rest, and the health of the soul,
That breatheth Celestial breath.

What mattereth now to the dead
The sceptres she held, and the crowns she ware,
And the jewels that cluster'd amid her hair?
But the widows she cloth'd, and the orphans she fed,
And the poor that blessed her for daily bread,
The secret sigh, and the holy prayer,—
These be the jewels whose virtues rare
A lustre around her shed!

Passeth the train away:
They shall mark the spots in future years,
That were wet each night with the mourner's tears:
Where Death had his court, they shall raise the Cross,
Where the Prince of Life redeem'd Death's loss;
Meanwhile, as the strains in distance die,
With humble knee, and upraised eye,
Orate pro anima!