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!

      The Coming of Arthur

      LEODOGRAN, THE KING of Cameliard,

      Had one fair daughter, and none other child;

      And she was the fairest of all flesh on earth,

      Guinevere, and in her his one delight.

      For many a petty king ere Arthur came

      Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war

      Each upon other, wasted all the land;

      And still from time to time the heathen host

      Swarmed overseas, and harried what was left.

      And so there grew great tracts of wilderness,

      Wherein the beast was ever more and more,

      But man was less and less, till Arthur came.

      For first Aurelius lived and fought and died,

      And after him King Uther fought and died,

      But

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