Purple and Black

The death of princes is
Honoured most greatly,
Proud kings put purple on
In manner stately.

Though they have lived such life
As God offends,
Gone fearful down to death,
Sick, without friends.

And in the temple dim,
Trumpets of gold
Proclaim their glory; so
Their story is told.

In sentimental hymns
Weeping her dolour,
The mother of heroes wears
Vile black--Death’s colour,

Who should walk proudly with
The noblest one
Of all that purple throng--
“This was my son.”