In searching at the British Museum a little while ago for documents concerning this prince, we came upon a mention under his name in the catalogue of "Some Teares." Curious to see what they were, we were told that the book which contained them was too valuable to be brought into the great reading room, where hundreds of workers congregate in busy silence every day. So we were taken through locked doors into an inner sanctum; and there the precious document was intrusted to us. It was a large sheet of stiff paper, with wide black borders, and on it a long poem (of which I can only give a few lines) was printed, entitled,
SOME TEARES DROPT ON THE HERSE OF THE INCOMPARABLE PRINCE
HENRY DUKE OF GLOUCESTER.
Fatal September to the Royal line
Has snatch'd one Heroë of our hopeful Trine
From Earth; 'tis strange heaven should not prœdeclare
A loss so grievous by some Blazing Star,
Which might our senses overjoy'd, alarm,
And time give to prepare for so great harm.
He was Fair Fruit sprung from a Royal Bud,
And grown as great by fair Renown as Blood;
Ripe too too soon; for in a Youth so green
An Harvest was of gray-haired Wisdome seen.
Minerva's Darling, Patron of the Gown,
Lover of Learning, and Apollo's Crown
He was; the Muses he began to nourish,
Learn'd men and arts under his wings did flourish.
But lest we should commit Idolatry,
Heav'n took him from our sight, not Memory.
London: Printed by W. Godbid for Henry Brome at the Gun in Ivy Lane, and Henry Marsh at the Princes Arms in Chancery-lane near Fleet-street, M.D.C.L.X.
As we handled the stiff old sheet with its black borders, and saw September 20, written in before the date in faded ink, we seemed to see the handsome, gentle, studious prince, borne out of the palace where the tragedy of his father's death was yet fresh in the minds of those who were rejoicing at the young king's restoration. We seemed to follow the sad procession down to the Abbey of Westminster, and watch him laid in the grave of his great-grandmother, beside his little sister Anna. And it saddened us to think of that gallant young lad cut off just when fortune smiled upon him after his lonely childhood, his stormy boyhood. But then we thought again of all he was saved from—of the corruption and evil-doing of his brother Charles's abominable court—of the troubles and disgraces of James the Second's reign. And the little chapel where he lies was transformed into a safe haven of refuge from evils far worse than death.
No monument is raised to his memory. But above his grave, Mary, Queen of Scots, with her proud beautiful face in scornful repose, lies under her splendid canopy, a fierce little Scotch lion crowned at her feet. And in the dim mysterious light that comes through the tiny diamond panes of the windows, we read words on her tomb that are indeed true of her great-grandson, Henry, Duke of Gloucester; and as we leave him here at rest we too say: