Death’s shadow falls across the Palace door,
His fingers trace our dear Princess’ doom;
“She will awake no more; ah! never more!”
And through the murky night the big bells boom.
But in the gray of morning hope appears,
And treading in death’s footprints entrance seeketh
Where lonely grief is weeping bitter tears,
And whispers low—“She being dead yet speaketh.”
And at the voice of hope the black clouds break,
And through the rift there shines God’s glorious light;
And we who mourn look up and solace take
As those to whom comes day—dawn after night.
“She being dead yet speaketh”—all may hear
The message left us by her lovely life
In deeds that live, in actions that endear,
As Princess, sister, daughter, mother, wife!
The fierce rude light that beats upon a throne
For which so many royal heads are hid,
Served but to make her worth more widely known,
To glorify the acts of grace she did.
A favorite sister! She the love had earn’d
Her brothers and her sisters for her felt,
By her devotion which had brightest burn’d
When with disease and threatening death she dealt.
A darling daughter! ’T is the Queen alone
Can know the secret of that awful time,
When at the father’s side by her were shown
A faith and constancy alike sublime.
A doting mother! What could she do more
Than for her little one her life lay down?
No heroine than this could higher soar—
No grander deed a noble life could crown!
A perfect wife! The heavy veil of grief
Back from the stricken hearth we will not draw,
Save but to say her life, alas! too brief,
Her husband found without one spot or flaw.
Then let not grief persuade us she is dead;
She has but left us for a fairer shore;
And though her spirit heav’nwards may have fled,
Her influence remains for evermore.
—Truth