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 Afrio'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 I 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! 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 my In all the strife of tongues that stuns the world; Kings may be crowned or orownless, nations rise, Flourish or fall, it nothing is to thee: No doubtful claim doth 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 I stand forth before the watt:hint world, And take good vengeanee for this Prince's death 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 Oontinent," Until the baleful flames of war die out And '8 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 be well avenged t But thou, Illustrious Mother of the Dead, What tongue or pen can tell thy mighty grief ? Bereaved of all thy treasures and alone I We call to mind in this thine hour of woe,, Thy loveliness, thine high imperial states Th 7 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 skore, an exile's grave, A nation's tears,—bears shed for him rin':l thee: But now, oh Empress I sorrow breaks all bounds, And every heart in England aches for thee And every soul is lifted up to Heaven In prayer profound, that comfeef may coins down From One who hears each nobs of human woe Who knows the love of meths? and of son with knowledge pasaing sone and mothers' love In this poor life ao full of broken ties •, God look upon tb,ea, lady, take thine heart Into His gentie hand, and keep it there Suppor.tine and consoling, till the time Wken 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 t  H. S. The poem above will appear in the next number of The World of Fashion, a magazine established. so far back as 184 and lately much improved.  Alq