So gat her to the town remorsefully, White with a mortal tremor and the sin Which sealed her mouth, and waited what might be, And watched the doors she dared not pass within. Alas, poor lady! that lone week of fears Outlived the length of all her former years. Some days the Prince, upon the skirts of death, Spake not a word nor heard the Queen’s one prayer, Nor turned his face, nor felt her loving breath, Nor saw his children when they gathered there, But rested dumb and motionless; and so The Queen grew weak with watching and her woe, Till from his bed they bore her to her own A little. In the middle-tide of night, Thereafter, he awoke with moan on moan, And saw his death anigh, and said outright, “I had all things, but love was worth them all!” Then sped they for the Queen, yet ere the call Reached her, he cried once more, “Too late! too late!” And at those words, before they led her in, Come the sure dart of him that lay in wait. The Prince was dead: what goodness and what sin Died with him were untold. At sunrise fell Across the capital his solemn knell. All respite it forbade, and joyance thence, To one for whom his passion till the last Wrought in the dying Prince. Her wan suspense Thus ended, a great fear upon her passed. “I was the cause!” she moaned from day to day, “Now let me bear the penance as I may!” So with her whole estate she sought and gained A refuge in a nunnery close at view, And there for months withdrew her, and remained In tears and prayers. Anon a sickness grew Upon her, and her face the ghost became Of what it was, the same and not the same. So died the blameless Prince. The spacious land Was smitten in his death, and such a wail Arose, as when the midnight angel’s hand Was laid on Egypt. Gossips ceased their tale, Or whispered of his goodness, and were mute; No sound was heard of viol or of lute; The streets were hung with black; the artisan Forsook his forge; the artist dropped his brush; The tradesmen closed their windows. Man with man Struck hands together in the first deep hush Of grief; or, where the dead Prince lay in state, Spoke of his life, so blameless, pure, and great. But when, within the dark cathedral vault, They joined his ashes to the dust of kings, No royal pomp was shown; for Death made halt Above the palace yet, on dusky wings, Waiting to gain the Queen, who still was prone Along the couch where haply she had thrown, At knowledge of the end, her stricken frame. With visage pale as in a mortal swound She stayed, nor slept, nor wept, till, weeping, came The crown-prince and besought her to look round And speak unto her children. Then she said: “Hereto no grief has fallen on our head;