ALBERT VICTOR

Evening Star, Issue 8772, 12 March 1892, Page 2 (Supplement)

ALBERT VICTOR

DUKS OF CLARENCE ANDAVONDALF. Bom January 8,1864, Tied January 14,1802. i. Dead ! And no warrior soul outworn, Aweary of the strife, Bat, be, aUs ! we have to mourn, A neophyte of life : Youngest of England's ancient lino, Hope of a people's heart; your promised King, and mine. 11. Ev'cw charge tha put pie for the pall! Tliobii.'iil f»r tho bier 1 He, tho beloved, Vvseush't of all, Lies mute, uigtz'cg, here, Dtv-t unto dust, the you'g. the proud ; A c-.'lfin for his crown, his majesty a throud ! in Yet wo. p uot for the dead; Mighty aud mi an must-, die; Too loftiest, like the lowlitsr, head Ij but a passer-by. Drath keeps no favors for the great; Poasaut a:.d Prince alike live but in fee from Fate. IV. But Love, tho boon of lord and clown, Lovn had he made his own, Love, j- welled beycud any crown, Loftier thin any throno j Hail fuund a maiden fond aud fair, Wh% trembling on his heirt, wept her glad weakness there, v. Now mufll (1 be the mirmge-bell! The nuptial wreith bs rent! Pahce and tower must toll tho knell Of hisdaik tenement. The flowers we twined to blush and bloom Around tb i bridal b.rd must pale about liia tomb, VI, A'as for Her ! the graced, the good, For ever doomed to wear The mockery of widowhood About her maiden hair. Scmoo had sho tirao to reaeh and clasp The gifts of Love but they were ashes in her grasp. VII. Glory of pomp, and glow of power, 'Tis nothing to forego ; Grandeur is but a doubtful dower, Rank oft but radiant woo. But to lose Love, jast seen, just known, To mbgle, Two-lnOno, and then to mournalone ! vm. 0, if She could exchange her lot, And now wero free to choose, With one who in some whitewashed cot Over her baby ooob, Acd tend the humblest hearth that burns, To whose awaiting smile tbe cherishod ose returns! IX. Wo weep with hor. We weep with You, No less, loved, widowed Queen, Who nurse a loss for ever new, A wound for ever green. Your brow august is crownod with care, So take Her to Your broass, and hush hor anguish there! x. And you, f?ir, who for long, lone years Havo stood beside the Throne, And now would stem a Mother's tears, Forgetful of your own, For you we mourn, we mourn for her, All of us at your side, by His Bad Bepulchre. Alfred Austin, in the London • Times.'