Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/320

THE BLAMELESS PRINCE So died the blameless Prince. The spacious land

Was smitten in his death, and such a wail

Arose, as when the midnight angel's hand

Was laid on Egypt. Gossips ceased their tale,

Or whispered of his goodness, and were mute;

No sound was heard of viol or of lute;

The streets were hung with black; the artisan

Forsook his forge; the artist dropped his brush;

The tradesmen closed their windows. Man with man

Struck hands together in the first deep hush

Of grief; or, where the dead Prince lay in state,

Spoke of his life, so blameless, pure, and great.

But when, within the dark cathedral vault,

They joined his ashes to the dust of kings,

No royal pomp was shown; for Death made halt

Above the palace yet, on dusky wings,

Waiting to gain the Queen, who still was prone

Along the couch where haply she had thrown,

At knowledge of the end, her stricken frame.

With visage pale as in a mortal swound

She stayed, nor slept, nor wept, till, weeping, came

The crown-prince and besought her to look round

And speak unto her children. Then she said:

Is loosed against us with this single stroke!

Yet we are Queen, and still must live,—alas!—

As he would have us." Even as she spoke

She wept, and mended thence, yet bore the face

Of one whose fate delays but for a space.

Thenceforth she worked and waited till the call

Of Heaven should close the labor and the pause. 290