The Death Of The Duke Of Clarence And Avondale

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

　　

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To the Mourners. The bridal garland falls upon the bier, The shadow of a crown, that o’er him hung, Has vanish’d in the shadow cast by Death. So princely, tender, truthful, reverent, pure— Mourn! That a world-wide Empire mourns with you, That all the Thrones are clouded by your loss, Were slender solace. Yet be comforted; For if this earth be ruled by Perfect Love, Then, after his brief range of blameless days, The toll of funeral in an Angel ear Sounds happier than the merriest marriage-bell. The face of Death is toward the Sun of Life, His shadow darkens earth: his truer name Is ‘Onward,’ no discordance in the roll And march of that Eternal Harmony Whereto the worlds beat time, tho’ faintly heard Until the great Hereafter. Mourn in hope!

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