The Death Of The Duke Of Clarence And Avondale


To the Mourners.

The bridal garland falls upon the bier,
The shadow of a crown, that o’er him hung,
Has vanish’d in the shadow cast by Death.
So princely, tender, truthful, reverent, pure—
Mourn! That a world-wide Empire mourns with you,
That all the Thrones are clouded by your loss,
Were slender solace. Yet be comforted;
For if this earth be ruled by Perfect Love,
Then, after his brief range of blameless days,
The toll of funeral in an Angel ear
Sounds happier than the merriest marriage-bell.
The face of Death is toward the Sun of Life,
His shadow darkens earth: his truer name
Is ‘Onward,’ no discordance in the roll
And march of that Eternal Harmony
Whereto the worlds beat time, tho’ faintly heard
Until the great Hereafter. Mourn in hope!


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Return to the Alfred Lord Tennyson Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; The Death Of The Old Year

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