And blackens every blot; for where is he
Who dares foreshadow for an only son
A lovelier life, a more unstained than his ?
Or how should England, dreaming of his sons,
Hope more for these than some inheritance
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be
Laborious for her people and her poor,
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day,
Far-sighted summoner of war and waste
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace,
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam
Of letters, dear to science, dear to art,
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed,
Beyond all titles, and a household name
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good.
Break not, O woman's heart, but still endure;
Break not, for thou art royal, but endure,
Remembering all the beauty of that star
Which shone so close beside thee, that ye made
One light together, but has past and left
The Crown a lonely splendour.
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow thee,
The love of all thy sons encompass thee,
The love of all thy daughters cherish thee,
The love of all thy people comfort thee,
Till God's love set thee at his side again!
The following plaintive German hymn the Prince repeated on his deathbed. The music that he had himself composed for this hymn was chanted with exquisitely touching effect in St. George's Chapel, Windsor, at his truly royal funeral, and it will be
for ever associated with the solemn anniversary of his death in 1861.
I shall not in the grave remain,
Since Thou death's bonds hast sever'd;
By hope with Thee to rise again,
From fear of death deliver❜d.
I'll come to Thee, where'er Thou art,
Live with Thee, from Thee never part;
Therefore to die is rapture.
And so to Jesus Christ I'll go,
My longing arms extending;
So fall asleep in slumber deep,
Slumber that knows no ending,
Till Jesus Christ, God's only Son,
Opens the gates of bliss-leads on
To Heaven, to life eternal!
And this favourite chorale of the Prince was chanted when the gold and crimson crown of his royal dignity, placed on the head of the coffin, slowly disappeared below the chapel floor from the gaze of the assembled mourners :
To Thee, O Lord, I yield my spirit,
Who break'st in love this mortal chain ;
My life I but from Thee inherit,
And death becomes my chiefest gain.
In Thee I live, in Thee I die,
Content-for Thou art ever nigh.
The following lines were written for the people's anniversary of the Prince Consort's birthday, when, by the express desire of Her Majesty, the Horticultural Gardens of Kensington, were thrown open to all classes freely-and more than freely-with the most cordial welcome that the Queen had it in
her power to command, in honour of him whose statue had, at her particular request, taken the place there that had been reserved for her own. Henceforth the 26th of August should be a festival for all ranks, from the highest to the lowest, at these gardens, as the birthday of Albert the Good.
Not for pride of rank or glitter of wealth that scene ; The day was his, and the great stream of plebeian life
Came pouring in,-earnest, self-reliant manhood;
Meek, suffering, patient, glorious womanhood;
With joyous, careless childhood in their train.
All eagerly breathing the perfumèd air,
Which, like the cooling freshness of a desert spring-
Silver-white and crystal clear—was unto them
As the refilling of the cup of life.
They stood a tangled web of good and evil,
And gazed with a grave wonderment and awe;
And as when in the aisle of an ancient shrine
A perfumed offering is borne on the air,
So there came on the breeze a thousand scents;
For each flower bent to her sister flower,
And borrowed a sweetness yet more rare,
Tossing to the skies a carnival of incense
From out their slender stalks and dewy leaves.
Rich, dropping, ethereal music stole o'er the ear,
'Till the very trees sang in gladness and joy,
And the dance of sun-shadows threw cobwebs of
gold
O'er the silver tissue of the laughing cascades,
Whose rippling streams danced and splash'd as they
And mingling with the joyous sunlight, made
A golden network—a tessellated carpet.
Grave, still, voiceless, look'd he down upon them;
Mighty in form, and on his lips a smile
Wanting but a Promethean flame, it seem'd,
Ere changing into words of love and blessing-
A mighty spell lasting through life, mighty in death.
And the sun, like an omen of joy, came and threw
Golden arrows around his form, as if to show
The seraph's glittering robe that now he wears.
And all the people's woe came back tenfold;
And thought on swift pinion cast a holy spell,
A sweet sadness, o'er the great surging throng,
Fathoming their depth of love with strangest charm.
Children, too sad to be rebellious, paused,
And in vague reverence spake with hush'd delight;
For in their fathers' eyes brimm'd unshed tears,
And they but faintly smiled upon them;
The burst of music had a sadden'd cadence
Unto them, and became a dirge of solace;
For memories glad and sad were swiftly borne
On balmy winds, waking painful thoughts
From out the half-closed book of Time.
And the memory of that sad day came back
When the muffled mantle of death swept by:
That day, when men of iron nerve bow'd down
In childlike terror at the shadow o'er the world;
That day, when a nation's heart was turn'd; that
day,
When a nation's pulse stood still in silent horror;
When men in hush'd accents told of England's grief
With a hope weary and aching that their word
were false.
And with reverent love they spake of her,
The dewiness of whose life hath pass'd away;
Who, with her hands outstretch'd imploringly,
Still graspeth nothing save cold, black misery;
Who, mourning over buried hopes full of one image,
And with a spirit out of tune with mirth or joy,
Now heareth but one voice-seeth but one face,
Yet knoweth still the noble alchemy
Of transmuting into blessings unto others
This her bitter woe-her deepest sorrow.
Time cannot break the potent charm, or bear away
On his rapid wing the thought of what he was.
For ever in the measureless march of Time
Will stand his memory, distinct and clear.
At his name thought shall ever trail her wings,
Nor wear the shadowy garments of the
Victoria! beloved Queen!
Each tear that thou hast shed for him so good and
Hath added to thy crown a rare and priceless gem.
That day became thy offering-not ours-
To a stainless soul, whose most inner chamber
Knew no guile, and was unstain'd with sin.
'Twas not thy noble queenship, but thy glorious
That gauged the tribute
we should pay
that day
To him so deeply mourn'd, so early lost.
And from on high he hath look'd down upon thee,
And smiled, and gather'd with a miser's care
Thy people's praise and love; and with a holy pride
Hath laid them at his heavenly Father's feet.
In a rough crucible hath thy love been tried,
O sovereign lady; through the heated furnace
With it thou hast walk'd untouch'd,
And thou knowest it the lasting sorrow of thy life;
The shadowy arrow must probe thy heart for ever,
For no man is there who may draw it forth.
Yet He who ruleth all-the King of kings,
The Lord of lords, shall send from His throne to thee
An angel of comfort, who shall in thine heart
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