THE SHROUD is yet unspread | |
| To wrap our crowned dead; | |
| His soul hath scarcely hearkened for the thrilling word of doom; | |
| And Death that makes serene | |
| Ev’n brows where crowns have been, | 5 |
| Hath scarcely time to meeten his, for silence of the tomb. | |
| |
| St. Paul’s king-dirging note | |
| The city’s heart hath smote— | |
| The city’s heart is struck with thought more solemn than the tone! | |
| A shadow sweeps apace | 10 |
| Before the nation’s face, | |
| Confusing in a shapeless blot, the sepulchre and throne. | |
| |
| The palace sounds with wail— | |
| The courtly dames are pale— | |
| A widow o’er the purple bows, and weeps its splendor dim: | 15 |
| And we who hold the boon, | |
| A king for freedom won, | |
| Do feel eternity rise up between our thanks and him. | |
| |
| And while all things express | |
| All glory’s nothingness, | 20 |
| A royal maiden treadeth firm where that departed trod! | |
| The deathly scented crown | |
| Weighs her shining ringlets down; | |
| But calm she lifts her trusting face, and calleth upon God. | |
| |
| Her thoughts are deep within her: | 25 |
| No outward pageants win her | |
| From memories that in her soul are rolling wave on wave— | |
| Her palace walls enring | |
| The dust that was a king— | |
| And very cold beneath her feet she feels her father’s grave. | 30 |
| |
| And One, as fair as she, | |
| Can scarce forgotten be,— | |
| Who clasped a little infant dead, for all a kingdom’s worth! | |
| The mourned, blessed One, | |
| Who views Jehovah’s throne, | 35 |
| Aye smiling to the angels that she lost a throne on earth. | |
| |
| Perhaps our youthful Queen | |
| Remembers what has been— | |
| Her childhood’s rest by loving heart, and sport on grassy sod— | |
| Alas! can others wear | 40 |
| A mother’s heart for her? | |
| But calm she lifts her trusting face, and calleth upon God. | |
| |
| Yea! on God, thou maiden | |
| Of spirit nobly laden, | |
| And leave such happy days behind, for happy-making years! | 45 |
| A nation looks to thee | |
| For steadfast sympathy: | |
| Make room within thy bright clear eyes, for all its gathered tears. | |
| |
| And so the grateful isles | |
| Shall give thee back their smiles, | 50 |
| And as thy mother joys in thee, in them shalt thou rejoice; | |
| Rejoice to meekly bow | |
| A somewhat paler brow, | |
| While the King of Kings shall bless thee by the British people’s voice! | |
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