In her great grief a share,
Who bows above the bier of him she loved.

Princess, whose brightening fate
We gladly hymned of late,
Whose nuptial happiness we hoped to hymn
With the first bursts of spring,
To you our hearts we bring
Warm with a sympathy death cannot dim.

Death, cold and cruel Death,
Removes the Bridal Wreath
England for England's daughter had designed.
Love cannot stay that hand,
And Hymen's rosy band
Is rent; so will the Fates austere and blind.

Blind and austere! Ah, no!
The chill succeeds the glow,
As winter hastes at summer's hurrying heel.
Flowers, soft and virgin-white,
Meant for the Bride's delight,
May deck the pall where love in tears must kneel.

Flowers are they, blossoms still,
Born of Benignant Will,
Not of the Sphingian Fate, which hath no heed
For human smiles or tears;
The long-revolving years
Have brought humanity a happier creed.