Albert the Good

Soaie Two-and-Twenty golden years ago,
A youthful Wooer to our England came;

To-day, he has won her, lying pale and low.
Albert the Good we write his noble name.

The Power that sits enthroned by open graves
Hath risen to rule the air. His death-bell tolls,
And rolls upon us in dull heavy waves,
Sepulchral shadows over living souls.

On every burdened wind the sound is borne,
Invisibly swift the Sparks Electric slide;

Till, under Archways of full many a morn,
The gloom of our great loss will visibly glide.

The meanest doorway darkens at the cloud,
The poorest poor have lost a personal friend;

Down to one level are the loftiest bowed;
In the large clasp of nature all hearts blend.

The gush of gladness in our eyes is dimmed;

Christmas hath lost its glow of merry heartshine;
The "Wassail-cup will pass as though 'twere
brimmed
With the red, solemn, Sacramental wine,
And dark in his extinguished light we stand.

In every face we read how much bereft!
A kindlier pressure of the clasping hand
Tells of our loss, and clings to what is left.

For he was one of those we never know
Till they have left us, nor how great the love
We bore them; they are all too meek to show
Their clearness, till they stand our praise above.

How should we mirror truly when a breath
Set all the surface in a blurring strife!

We are calmer now! — touched by the hand of
Death!
To hold the lustrous image of his life.

We met him coldly, and on looking back
See all our dimness by his kindling glow;

The mist we breathed hath served to mark his
track,
And make a starrier halo for his brow.

At last our clouds of earth are cleared away!

Albert the Good goes patiently to God;
Smiling back to us with his frank blue day,
Leaving us shining footprints Avhere he trod.

Down goes the Scaffolding, the Work is crowned;

Much that was hidden from us may be read,
And for the first time we can look all round
The Statue of his life now perfected.

The Flower of Chivalry upon the height,
As featly could he bend to lowliest place;

With something in his presence of the light
That shone in Philip Sidney's gracious face.

His natural kingliness made Crowns look wan,
Whom Fate had set amongst the Lords of Earth
To show them how the majesty of Man
May shine above the starriest badge of Birth.

He held forever hallowed the dear breasts
Where nestling Love and its sweet babes had
Iain;

Forever sacred kept Home's secret nest
Of purest pleasure and of proudest pain.

A calm, high life, crowned with a quiet death!

His robe of pain around him folding, he
Was not the man to waste his dying breath;

Who truly lives, can die with dignity.

The gentle spirit did not wish to hear
The women moaning through the house for him,
I '.u only sought to feel its darlings near
Enough to bless them when 'twas getting dim!

Xo need of Courtly lies for comforting;

For he can face the truth, though stern and wild:
Through spiritual rehearsal he can wring
The victory! and his soul within him smiled.

It is not near so hard for one to bow
And enter the dark doorway of the Tomb,
Who has learnt to meet Death kneeling with bent
brow;
Whose inward light can pierce that outer gloom.

And while in sorrow here we dimly sit,
We lift the head, to ease an aching breast,
And, looking up, behold the Stars are lit;
And there's another in the realms of Rest.

Rest, happy soul, in thy salvation deep;

The top of life, and endless clay for thee;
While in the valleys here we strive or sleep
Among the shadows of Eternity.

We can but kneel, and grope, and kiss His feet
Who takes thee to His infinite embrace;

We feel transfigured if our touch may meet
His garment's hem; but Thou beholdst His face.

Poor Widowed Queen! we see her as she trod
The Aisle where Music's mellow thunders rolled,
And Heaven opened, and the smile of God
In sunbeams crowned her head with saintly gold.

And how we listened — knowing she was blest —
To the proud murmurs of the brooding dove;

Home-pleasures round the royal Mother pressed,
And God gave many voices to her love.

And now the cloud of this calamity
Darkens the crown we set on her young brow:
Ah, look up to the side next Heaven, and see
'Tis God Himself that crowns our lady now!

With all hearts aching for the folded face,
We can but grasp His hand in prayer for her!

So lonely in her desolate, high place;

And leave her with the Eternal Comforter.

Though two be parted in that shadow drear,
Where one must walk alone, yet is it given
For the Beloved spirit to be near;

The human vision with the voice in Heaven.

It is my faith they friend us in our need;

With tender cords they draw us where they
move;
And often at the noon of night they feed
With dews of Heaven the lilies of their love.

Warm whispers will come stealing like a glow
Of God, to kiss the spirit's sealed eyes
Till they be opened, and True Love doth know
Its Marriage Garden blooms in Paradise.

Here hearts may beat so close that two lives make
Only one shadow in the sun we see,
But, in the light we see not, these shall wake
One Angel — wedded for eternity.

This mourning shall be made majestic mirth;

This grief shall be a glory otherwhere;
The music that we hear no more on earth
Will help to make up Heaven when we are there.

The sap is swart and bitter in the bark,
That sweetens sunnily in the fruit above,
And spirits yearning upward through the dark
Shall climb and summer in the light of love.

And Thou, young Prince, whose Pilot saw thee
tide
Safe o'er the reefs beyond the Harbour-bar,
Then left thee — Beaconing o'er the waters wide,
This Star of Morn shall rise, thine Evening Star.

May thy life flourish, ripen hour by hour,
And heavenward draw the virtues of thy root;

Our eyes have seen the beauty of the flower,
Do thou unfold the 'glory of the fruit.

We build his Monument, but men may see
His steady lustre live in thee and thine;

And thou may est bear, to Empires yet to be,
The goodness and the glory of thy line.

Think of the dear face dark beneath the mould,
And be thou to us what he would have been;

So shall the secret springs of sorrow old
Give to thy future paths a gladder green.

This is a waiting hour of wonder for
The world; our England looks across her waves;
Will the Dove seek her bosom, or red "War,
Whose footprints tread deep pits for gory graves?

Is it the kiss of Peace and Righteousness,
That softly thrills the hushed, grim silence
through,
Or Battle's bugle-cry that makes us press
All sail — send up our brave old bit of blue!

We know not. But, if foot to foot we stand,
On slippery boarding-plank, or ruddied sward,
'Twill be the sturdier stroke for our dear Land
That holds another grave like this to guard.

And all is well that makes a People one,
Even though the meeting-place be Albert's tomb:

We gather grapes of joy up in the sun,
But our best wine must ripen in the gloom.

Many true hearts have mouldered down to enrich
The roots of England's greatness underground;

Until, below, as wide and strong they stretch,
As overhead the branches reach around.

And so our England's glory ever grows,
And so her stature rises ever higher,
Until the faces of her farthest foes
Darken with envy, overshadowed by her.

So climb the heavens, Old Tree, until the gold
Stars glisten as thy fruitage — heave thy breast
And broaden till the fiercest storms shall fold
Their wings within thy shelter and find rest.