A HOME IN THE PALACE

Thrice fortunate he

Who, in the palace born, has early learn'd

The lore of sweet simplicity:

From smiling gold his eyes inviolate turn'd,

Turn'd unreturning:— Who the people's cause,

The sovereign-levelling laws,

Above the throne,

— He made for them, not they for him,— has set;

Life-lavish for his land alone,

Whether she crown with gratitude, or forget:—

He, who in courts beneath the purple weight

Of precedence moves sedate,

By all that glare

Of needful pageantry less stirr'd than still'd,

Bringing a waft of natural air

Through halls with pomp and flattering incense fill'd;

And in the central heart's calm secret, waits

The closure of the gates,

The music mute,

The darkling lamps, the festal tables clear:—

Then,— glad as one who from pursuit

Breathes safe, and lets himself himself appear,—

Turns to the fireside jest, the laughing eyes,

The love without disguise,—

On home alone,

The loyal partnership of man with wife,

Building a throne beyond the throne;

All happiness in that common household life

By peasant shared with prince,— when toil and health,

True parents of true wealth,

To its fair close

Round the long day, and all are in the nest,

And care relaxes to repose,

And the blithe restless nursery lulls to rest;

Prayer at the mother's knee; and on their beds

We kiss the shining heads!

— Thrice fortunate he

Who o'er himself thus won his masterdom,

Earning that rare felicity

E'en in the palace walls to find the Home!

Who shaped his life in calmness, firm and true,

Each day, and all day through,

To that high goal

Where self, for England's sake, was self-effaced,

In silence reining-in his soul

On the strait difficult line by wisdom traced,

‘ Twixt gulf and siren, avalanche and ravine,

Guarding the golden mean.

Hence, as the days

Went by, with insight time-enrich'd and true,

O'er Europe's policy-tangled maze

He glanced, and touch'd the central shining clue:

And when the tides of party roar'd and surged,

‘ Gainst the state-bulwarks urged

By factious aim

Masquing beneath some specious patriot cloke,

Or flaunting a time-honour'd name,—

Athwart the flood he held an even stroke;

Between extremes on her old compass straight

Aiding to steer the state.

With equal mind,

Hence,— sure of those he loved on earth, and then

His loved ones sure again to find,—

For Christ's and England's cause, Goodwill to men,

To the end he strove, and put the fever by,—

Ready to live or die.

— And if in death

We were not so alone, who might not quit,

Smiling, this tediousness of breath,

These bubble joys that flash and burst and flit,—

This tragicomedy of life, where scarce

We know if it be farce,

A puppet-sight

Of nerve-pull'd dolls that o'er the world dance by,

Or Good in that unequal fight

With Ill... who from such theatre would not fly?

— But those dear faces round the bed disarm

Death of his natural charm!

— O Prince, to Her

First placed, first honour'd in our love and faith,

True stay, true constant counseller,

From that first love of boyhood's prime,— to death!

O if thy soul on earth permitted gaze

In these less-fortunate days

When, hour by hour,

The million armaments of the world are set

Skill-weapon'd with new demon-power,

Mouthing around this little isle,... and yet

On dream-security our fate we cast,

Of all that glory-past

With light fool-heart

Oblivious!... O in spirit again restored,

Insoul us to the nobler part,

The chivalrous loyalty of thy life and word!

Thou, who in Her to whom first love was due,

Didst love her England too,

If earthly care

In that eternal home, where thou dost wait

Renewal of the days that were,

Move thee at all,— upon the realm estate

The wisdom of thy virtue, the full store

Thy life's experience bore!

O known when lost,

Lost, yet not fully known, in all thy grace

Of bloom by cruel early frost,

Best prized and most by Her, to whom thy face

Was love and life and counsel:— If this strain

Renew not all in vain

The bitter cry

Of yearning for the loss we yet deplore,—

Yet for her heart, who stood too nigh

For comfort, till God's hour thy face restore.

Man has no lenitive! He, who wrought the grief,...

Alone commands relief.

— Thou, as the rose

Lies buried in her fragrance, when on earth

The summer-loosen'd blossom flows,

Art sepulchred and embalm'd in native worth:

While to thy grave, in England's anxious years,

We bring our useless tears.