Lo! there—an open grave! and heads are bare,
And bent; and bosoms heave, and tears are falling
From youthful womanhood,—from hoary age.
Men weep, as slowly through the reverent throng
Is borne what hides from view a shrivelled form,
Wasted and featureless: yet round that bier
Stand silently the great of many lands.
Britain's high born stand there; and kings of men
Of other realms stand there by envoy. There
The sons of science gather, and the friends
Of light and liberty. The Churches' messengers
Look on in sadness there; and a vast throng,
Crowding around, sigh forth a nation's sympathy.
Tokens of reverent love-azalea wreaths,
Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined,
Bright immortelles, branches of Afric's palm—
(Symbol of triumph e'en in death) are there,
And, honour to the honoured!—Britain's Queen
Sign of "respect and admiration" sends,—
Her own, and royal daughter's funeral gifts
To deck the bier.
And who is it that thus
Draws to himself in death the eyes of nations?
Is it some warrior leader, who has died
In the proud hour of victory, and, wept
By whole people's tears, lies down to rest?
—Or is it one who, in a nation's peril,
Has earned a nation's gratitude by wise
And warning counsels in her council halls?
—Is it a Prince has died? That royalty
