The Kenilworth Advertiser. — 1879-07-12 (Kenilworth, Warwickshire, England)

THE PRINCE IMPERIAL.  The deepest pulse of England's heart is stirred— A cry comes forth from tifric's burning coast, Our guest the Prince Imperial is dead! slaughtered by savage hands of England's foes, blain in our quarrel, on our service bent. Ah ! noble soul! that in the flush of youth, In manhood's freshness, with heroic fire, Drew from the sheath a stainless, maiden sword, And gladly give it to the kindly land That erewhile sheltered thine illustrious one; Ah kingly heart! born a great nation's hope, And cradled in the shadow of a throne' No crown was thine to wear before the lands, No jewelled " round and top of sovereignty," Nor soldier's scarce less glorious laurel wreath; Thy knightly spurs were yet to win, and bare, Uublazoned, and unstoried, was thy shield. The lips, where lately cluLg the parting kiss Of thy great mother, have no word to say In all the strife of tongues that stuns the world; Kings may be crowned or crownless, nations rise, Flourish or fall, it nothing is to thee: No doubtful claim (loth vex thy quiet sleep, No shadow of a crown torments thy rest, No grief for foxfeit splendour of a throne Mars the great calm of thy new-entered life, The life that brake for thee beneath the flash Of blir.ding steel, on that far foreign shore England! that young life was laid down for thee, Spent, in thy quarrel,,taken by thy foes, That kingly blood was shed by savage hands, Impelled by hearts mole savage, hearts that deem Man has no manhood until human blood Has dyed the murderous weapon lia his hand. England I stand forth before the watching world, And take good vengeance for this Prince's death ! Root from those savage hearts their cruel creed, Rear thou the standard of a goodly faith. Upon those awful wastes, and let the song Of peace and love make musie in the land; Break through the stronghold of the powers of ill In all the realm of "the Dark Continent," Until the baleful flames of war die out And peace's fair, white roses bloom at will; Let England's name become the watchworc: true For mercy, love, and closest brotherhood Between all shades of colour and of creed: So shall the death we mourn be well avenged! But thou, Illustrious Mother of the Dead, What tongue or pen can tell thy mighty grief? Bereaved of all thy treasures and alone! We call to mind in this thine hour of woe, Thy loveliness, thine high imperial state, Thy goodness, and thy friendship for our land: Thine husband was our friend in place and war, And when his day of desolation came, We gave him all we could, an exile's home Upon our friendly shore, an exile's grave, A nation's tears,—tears shed for him and thee: But now, oh Empress! sorrow breaks all bounds, And every heart in England aches for thee, And every soul is lifted up to Heaven In prayer profound, that comfort may come down From -One who hears each note of human woe, Who knows the love of mother and of son With knowledge passing sons' and mothers' love In this poor life so full of broken ties ; God look upon thee, Lady, take thine heart Into his gentle hand, and keep it there Supporting and consoling, till the time When it shall beat with rapture pure and high, As hand in hand with husband and with son, Love crowns the Cross which God has laid on thee! H. S.