Brighouse & Rastrick Gazette. — 1879-07-12 (Brighouse, West Yorkshire, England)

THE PRINCE IMPERIAL. The deepest pulse of England's heart is stirred— A cry comes forth from Afric's burning coast, Our guest, the Prince Imperial, is dead! Slaughtered by savage hands of England's foes, Slain in our quarrel, on our service bent. Ah 1 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 ones; Ah kingly heart I 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 the top of sovereignty," Nor soldier's scarce less glorious laurel wreath ; Thy knightly spurs were yet to win, and bare, Unblazoned, and unstoried, was thy shield. The lips, where lately clung 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 forfeit splendour of a throne Mars the great calm of thy new-entered life, The life that brake for thee beneath the flash Of blinding steel, on that far foreign shore ! England! that young life was laid down for thee, Spent in thy quarrels, taken by the foes, That kingly blood was shed by savage hands, Impelled by hearts more savage, hearts that deem Man as no manhood until human blood Has dyed the murderous weapon in his hand. England stand forth before the watching world, And take good vengeance for this Prince's death I Root from the 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 music in the land; Break thou the stronghold of the powers of ill In all the realm of "the Dark Continent," Until the baleful flames of war die oat And peace's fair, white roses bloom at will ; Let England's name become the watchword true For mercy, love, and closest brotherhood Between all shades of colour and of creed: So shall the death we mourn he 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, rhy loveliness, thine high imperial state, Thy goodness, and thy friendship for our land : Thine husband was our friend in peace 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 sou 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.  The poem above will appear in the next n-u-inirer of The World of Fashion, a magazine established so far back as 1823, and lately much improved.  AN