Alexandra!
Welcome her thunders of fort and of fleet,
Welcome her thundering cheer of the street!
“Oh, joy to the people, and joy to the Throne,
Come to us, love us, and make us your own!”
For had she not obeyed and fulfilled the Poet’s invocation? Had she not, indeed, come to us, and loved us, and made us her own? And had we not taken her in all her youth and hope and beauty, and made her our own in turn?—our own Princess of Loving-Kindness, dear to all, honoured by all as one of the purest and noblest figures in all the history of English Royal annals? And so on this St. Valentine’s Day of never-to-be-forgotten memory, the people gathered in multitudes to see her pass,—transformed from Princess into Queen—a change which, though always predestined, seemed at the time singular and as much attended by grief as by gladness. For she—like all the people who were one with her in truth and loyalty to the Throne—mourned the loss of the greatest, best, and wisest Sovereign that had ever reigned in England since the days of Elizabeth,—one, who to the diplomacy, tact, and foresight of Elizabeth, had added the sweetness, gentleness, and love of a pure womanly heart, ever in sympathy with the joys and griefs of her people. Affection, curiosity, and compassion struggled for the mastery in the minds of the vast crowds that watched the progress of the gorgeous State Coach, drawn by the dainty cream ponies which had but lately, alas! drawn the dead Queen through the great city to her last rest; and people standing a-tiptoe strove to peer through the glass on all sides, not so much to catch a glimpse of the King’s familiar face as to note the expression on the delicate fair features of his Consort. It was difficult to see her within the cumbrous painted and gilded equipage,—the King’s brilliant uniform and glittering orders made his figure more conspicuous than hers; moreover, his features were so well known to the crowds who had long loved him as their “popular” prince, that no one was put to any great strain to recognize him. But the shrinking, graceful form at his side was less distinct in outline—one saw a blur of sable robes and long-flowing veil, the gleam of jewels, a wistful face with soft grieved eyes, and that was all.
Inside the House of Lords, however, the impression was different. There, amid the rustle of black silken robes, and the sweep of mourning veils and funereal plumes, the glisten of diamonds, the milky sheen of pearls, and the almost startling relief of colour afforded by the scarlet robes of the Peers, came the very incarnation of majesty;—of grief and beauty in one, when the “Sea-King’s daughter” stood pale and proud beside her Husband and King,—when the Royal robes of ruby velvet and snowy ermine fell around that slight regal figure clad in solemn black, almost crushing it with a weight of splendour, and when the sweet eyes gazed out on the crowded gathering of the world’s most brilliant personages of rank and influence with a gravity not unmingled with pain. A fitting partner for the Throne of the greatest Emperor on earth.
“She stood beside him like a rainbow braided,
Within some storm, when scarce its shadows vast