_Punch_, with the People, genially rejoiced
In that Betrothal Wreath;[1]
And now relentless Death
Silences all the joy our hopes had voiced.

The Shadow glides between;
The garland's vernal green
Shrivels to greyness in its spectral hand.
Joy-bells are muffled, mute,
Hushed is the bridal lute,
And general grief darkens across the land.

Surely a hapless fate
For young hearts so elate,
So fired with promise of approaching bliss!
Oh, flowers we hoped to fling!
Oh, songs we thought to sing!
Prophetic fancy had not pictured this.

Young, modest, scarce yet tried,
Later he should have died,
This gentle youth, loved by our widowed QUEEN!
So we are apt to say,
Who only mark the way,
Not the great goal by all but Heaven unseen.

At least our tears may fall
Upon the untimely pall
Of so much frustrate promise, unreproved;
At least our hearts may bear