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WE have lost him; he is gone!
We know him now: all narrow jealousies
Are silent; and we see him as he moved:
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublime repression of himself,
And in what limits, and how tenderly;
Not swaying to this faction, or to that;
Not making his high place the lawless perch
Of winged ambition, nor a vantage ground
For pleasure; but through all this tract of years
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
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, through all time, 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 leaves
The crown a lonely splendor.

May all love,

His love unseen but felt, o'ershadovv 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.

A, Tennyson


SWEET maiden, for so calm a life
Too bitter seemed thy end;
But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife
A more than earthly Friend.

We miss thee in thy place at school,
And in thine homeward way,

Where violets, by the reedy pool
Peep out so shyly gay;

Where thou, a true and gentle guide,
Wouldst lead thy little band,

With all an elder sister's pride,
And rule with heart and hand.

And if we miss, O who may speak
What thoughts are hovering round

The pallet where thy fresh young cheek
Its evening slumber found?

How many a tearful, longing look,

In silence seeks thee yet, Where in its own familiar nook

Thy fireside chair is set .

And oft, when little voices dim,

Are feeling for the note,
In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn,

And, wavering, wildly float,

Comes gushing o'er a sudden thought

Of her who led the strain, How oft such music home she brought,—

But ne'er shall bring again.

O, say not so! the spring-tide air
Is fraught with whisperings sweet;

Who knows but heavenly carols there
With ours may duly meet?

Who knows how near, each holy hour,

The pure and child-like dead
May linger, when in shrine or bower

The mourner's prayer is said?

And He who willed thy tender frame

(O, stern but sweet decree !) Should wear the martyr's robe of flame,—

He hath prepared for thee

A garland in that region bright
Where infant spirits reign,

Tinged faintly with such golden light
As crowns His martyr train.

Nay, doubt it not: His tokens sure
Were round her death-bed shown:

The wasting pain might not endure,
'T was calm ere life had flown;

Even as we read of saints of yore:
Her heart and voice were free

To crave one quiet slumber more
Upon her mother's knee.

J. Keble



WHEN the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,

Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me,

And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep

Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like,

Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,

Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

H. W. Longfellow

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