_Why should we again be told_ _Dross will mingle with all gold?_ _That which time nor test can stain_ _Was not smelted quite in vain._ _What of Albert’s blameless heart,_ _Arthur’s old heroic part,_ _Saxon Alfred’s glorious reign?_ Yes, my Prince was such as they, Part of gold, and part of clay, Though his metal shone as bright, And his dross was hid from sight. He who brightest is, and best, Still may fear the secret test That shall try his heart aright. Let me, then, of what befell Hearts that loved, my story tell. Turn the leaf that lies between You who listen and the scene! Your pity for the Lady, since She died of sorrow; spare my Prince; Love to the last my gentle Queen! THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. Long since, there was a Princess of the blood, Sole heiress to the crown her father wore,— Plucked from a dying stem, that one fair bud Put forth, and withered ere it others bore; And scarce the King her blossomed youth had seen, When he, too, slept the sleep, and she was Queen. Hers was a goodly realm, not stretched afar In desert wilds by wolf and savage scoured, But locked in generous limits, strong in war, Serene in peace, with mountains walled and towered, Fed by the tilth of many a fertile plain, And veined with streams that proudly sought the main. The open sea bore commerce to her marts, Tumbling half round her borders with its tide; Her vessels shot the surge; all noble arts Of use and beauty in her towns were plied; Her court was regal; lords and ladies lit The palace with their graces and their wit. Wise councillors devised each apt decree That gained the potent sanction of her hand; Great captains led her arms on shore and sea; She was the darling of a loyal land; Poets sang her praises, and in hut and hall Her excellence was the discourse of all. Her pride was suited to her high estate, Her gentleness was equal with her youth, Her wisdom in her goodness found its mate; Her beauty was not that which brings to ruth Men’s lives, yet pure and luminous;—and fair Her locks, and over all a sovereign air. Without, she bore herself as rulers should, Queenly in walk and gesture and attire; Within, she nursed her flower of maidenhood, Sweet girlish thoughts and virginal desire: No woman’s head so keen to work its will But that the woman’s heart is mistress still. Three years she ruled a nation well content To have a maiden queen; then came a day When those on whom her councils chiefly leant Began to speak of marriage, and to pray Their sovereign not to hold herself alone, Nor trust the tenure of an heirless throne;