—­Thrice fortunate he
Who o’er himself thus won his masterdom,
Earning that rare felicity
E’en in the palace walls to find the Home! 
Who shaped his life in calmness, firm and true,
Each day, and all day through,

To that high goal
Where self, for England’s sake, was self-effaced,
In silence reining-in his soul
On the strait difficult line by wisdom traced,
’Twixt gulf and siren, avalanche and ravine,
Guarding the golden mean.

Hence, as the days
Went by, with insight time-enrich’d and true,
O’er Europe’s policy-tangled maze
He glanced, and touch’d the central shining clue: 
And when the tides of party roar’d and surged,
’Gainst the state-bulwarks urged

By factious aim
Masquing beneath some specious patriot cloke,
Or flaunting a time-honour’d name,—­
Athwart the flood he held an even stroke;
Between extremes on her old compass straight
Aiding to steer the state.

With equal mind,
Hence,—­sure of those he loved on earth, and then
His loved ones sure again to find,—­
For Christ’s and England’s cause, Goodwill to men,
To the end he strove, and put the fever by,—­
Ready to live or die.

—­And if in death
We were not so alone, who might not quit,
Smiling, this tediousness of breath,
These bubble joys that flash and burst and flit,—­
This tragicomedy of life, where scarce
We know if it be farce,

A puppet-sight
Of nerve-pull’d dolls that o’er the world dance by,
Or Good in that unequal fight
With Ill . . . who from such theatre would not fly? 
—­But those dear faces round the bed disarm
Death of his natural charm!

—­O Prince, to Her
First placed, first honour’d in our love and faith,
True stay, true constant counseller,
From that first love of boyhood’s prime,—­to death! 
O if thy soul on earth permitted gaze
In these less-fortunate days

When, hour by hour,
The million armaments of the world are set
Skill-weapon’d with new demon-power,
Mouthing around this little isle, . . . and yet
On dream-security our fate we cast,
Of all that glory-past

With light fool-heart
Oblivious! . . .  O in spirit again restored,
Insoul us to the nobler part,
The chivalrous loyalty of thy life and word! 
Thou, who in Her to whom first love was due,
Didst love her England too,

If earthly care
In that eternal home, where thou dost wait
Renewal of the days that were,
Move thee at all,—­upon the realm estate
The wisdom of thy virtue, the full store
Thy life’s experience bore!

O known when lost,
Lost, yet not fully known, in all thy grace
Of bloom by cruel early frost,
Best prized and most by Her, to whom thy face
Was love and life and counsel:—­If this strain
Renew not all in vain

The bitter cry
Of yearning for the loss we yet deplore,—­
Yet for her heart, who stood too nigh
For comfort, till God’s hour thy face restore. 
Man has no lenitive!  He, who wrought the grief, . . . 
Alone commands relief.