Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no more

The soundless sobs of dark and burning tears,

That none have seen; they smile no more, to breathe

A mother's comfort into aching hearts.

{2}

The patriarchal Queen, the monument

Of touching widowhood, of endless love,

And childlike purity—she sleeps. This night

Is watchful not. The restless hand, that slave

To duty, to a mastermind, to wisdom

That fathom'd history and saw beyond

The times, lies still in marble whiteness. Love

So great, so faithful, unforgetting and

Unselfish—must it sleep? Or will that veil,

That widow's veil unfold, and spread into

The dovelike wings, that long were wont to hover

In anxious care about her world-wide nest,

And now will soar and sing, as harpchords sing,

Whilst in their upward flight they breast the wind

Of Destiny. No rest for her, no tomb,

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