THE BLAMELESS PRINCE
Months, seasons passed, yet evermore a pall
Hung round the court. The sorrow and the cause
Were always with her; after things were tame
Beside the shadow of his deeds and fame.
Her palaces and parks seemed desolate;
No joy was left in sky or street or field;
No age, she thought, would see the Prince's mate:
What matchless hand his knightly sword could wield?
The world had lost, this royal widow said,
Its one bright jewel when the Prince was dead.
So that his fame might be enduring there
For many a reign, and sacred through the land,
She gathered bronze and lazuli, and rare
Swart marbles, while her cunning artists planned
A stately cenotaph,—and bade them place
Above its front the Prince's form and face,
Sculptured, as if in life. But the pale Queen,
Watching the work herself, would somewhat lure
Her heart from plaining; till, behind a screen,
The tomb was finished, glorious and pure,
Even like the Prince: and they proclaimed a day
When the Queen's hand should draw its veil away.
It chanced, the noon before, she bade them fetch
Her equipage, and with her children rode
Beyond the city walls, across a stretch
Of the green open country, where abode
Her subjects, happy in the field and grange,
And with their griefs, that took a meaner range,
Content. But as her joyless vision dwelt
On beauty that so failed her wound to heal,
She marked the Abbey's ancient pile, and felt
A longing at its chapel-shrine to kneel,
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