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DEAD Princess, living Power, if that which lived True life live on—and if the fatal kiss, Born of true life and love, divorce thee not From earthly love and life—if what we call The spirit flash not all at once from out This shadow into Substance—then perhaps The mellow’d murmur of the people’s praise From thine own State, and all our breadth of realm, Where Love and Longing dress thy deeds in light, Ascends to thee; and this March morn that sees Thy Soldier-brother’s bridal orange-bloom Break thro’ the yews and cypress of thy grave, And thine Imperial mother smile again, May send one ray to thee! and who can tell— Thou—England’s England-loving daughter—thou Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag Borne on thy coffin—where is he can swear But that some broken gleam from our poor earth May touch thee, while, remembering thee, I lay At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds Of England, and her banner in the East? |