JUNE 1879
In exile, widowed, childless, desolate,
Thou sittest in the majesty of woe,
And nations gaze, with shuddering murmurs low,
Upon the direful trilogy of Fate.
Hushed are the warring interests of state
Beneath the pall of Sorrow. Foes forego
Their wonted discord, and with footsteps slow
And meekened foreheads, move compassionate.
All exiles weave their miseries with thine;
All widows turn with sympathy to thee;
All mothers, desolate and childless made,
Mingle their moan with this thine agony:
And yet, to thee the royal lot is laid-
Threefold the cross that measures love divine.