Chapter: Dedication


  These to His Memory--since he held them dear,
  Perchance as finding there unconsciously
  Some image of himself--I dedicate,
  I dedicate, I consecrate with tears--
  These Idylls.

               And indeed He seems to me
  Scarce other than my king's ideal knight,
  'Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
  Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
  Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;
  Who loved one only and who clave to her--'
  Her--over all whose realms to their last isle,
  Commingled with the gloom of imminent war,
  The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
  Darkening the world.  We have lost him:  he is gone:
  We know him now:  all narrow jealousies
  Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
  How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
  With what sublime repression of himself,
  And in what limits, and how tenderly;
  Not swaying to this faction or to that;
  Not making his high place the lawless perch
  Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
  For pleasure; but through all this tract of years
  Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
  Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
  In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
  And blackens every blot:  for where is he,
  Who dares foreshadow for an only son
  A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his?
  Or how should England dreaming of his sons
  Hope more for these than some inheritance
  Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
  Thou noble Father of her Kings to be,
  Laborious for her people and her poor--
  Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day--
  Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste
  To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace--
  Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam
  Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art,
  Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed,
  Beyond all titles, and a household name,
  Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good.

     Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure;
  Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure,
  Remembering all the beauty of that star
  Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made
  One light together, but has past and leaves
  The Crown a lonely splendour.

                               May all love,
  His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee,
  The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee,
  The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee,
  The love of all Thy people comfort Thee,
  Till God's love set Thee at his side again!

 These Idylls are consecrated in tears and are dedicated to the memory of one who loved them as if he had seen his own image in them. He was a man who seemed in all his virtues and fine qualities to be none other than Arthur's ideal knight. Now he is gone, and England prays that his sons will be as noble as he was and will be worthy of their father, Albert the Good. The queen must reign alone, in splendor and in solitude, for he is gone, but she is royal and will endure. In his closing lines to the queen, the poet writes: . . . May all love,His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow thee,The love of all thy sons encompass thee,The love of all thy daughters cherish thee,The love of all thy people comfort thee,Till God's love set thee at his side again!

