Death of the Prince Imperial

Waileth a woman, "O my God!"     A breaking heart in a broken breath,     A hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death!     Can words catch the chords of the winds that wail,     When love's last lily lies dead in the vale!          Let her alone,             Under the rod          With the infinite moan             Of her soul for God.     Ah! song! you may echo the sound of pain,          But you never may shrine,          In verse or line,     The pang of the heart that breaks in twain.     Waileth a woman, "O my God!"     Wind-driven waves with no hearts that ache,     Why do your passionate pulses throb?     No lips that speak -- have ye souls that sob?     We carry the cross -- ye wear the crest,      We have our God -- and ye, your shore,     Whither ye rush in the storm to rest;     We have the havens of holy prayer --     And we have a hope -- have ye despair?      For storm-rocked waves ye break evermore,     Adown the shores and along the years,     In the whitest foam of the saddest tears,     And we, as ye, O waves, gray waves!     Drift over a sea more deep and wide,     For we have sorrow and we have death;     And ye have only the tempest's breath;     But we have God when heart-oppressed,     As a calm and beautiful shore of rest.     O waves! sad waves! how you flowed between     The crownless Prince and the exiled Queen!     Waileth a woman, "O my God!"      Her hopes are withered, her heart is crushed,     For the love of her love is cold and dead,     The joy of her joy hath forever fled;      A starless and pitiless night hath rushed     On the light of her life -- and far away     In Afric wild lies her poor dead child,     Lies the heart of her heart -- let her alone          Under the rod             With her infinite moan,          O my God!     He was beautiful, pure, and brave,          The brightest grace          Of a royal race;     Only his throne is but a grave;          Is there fate in fame?          Is there doom in names?     Ah! what did the cruel Zulu spears     Care for the prince or his mother's tears?     What did the Zulu's ruthless lance     Care for the hope of the future France?     Crieth the Empress, "O my son!"     He was her own and her only one,     She had nothing to give him but her love.     'Twas kingdom enough on earth -- above     She gave him an infinite faith in God;      Let her cry her cry     Over her own and only one,     All the glory is gone -- is gone,      Into her broken-hearted sigh.     Moaneth a mother, "O my child!"      And who can sound that depth of woe?     Homeless, throneless, crownless -- now     She bows her sorrow-wreathed brow --      (So fame and all its grandeurs go)          Let her alone             Beneath the rod          With her infinite moan,             "O my God!"