  The death of princes is Honoured most greatly, Proud kings put purple on In manner stately. Though they have lived such life As God offends, Gone fearful down to death, Sick, without friends. And in the temple dim, Trumpets of gold Proclaim their glory; so Their story is told. In sentimental hymns Weeping her dolour, The mother of heroes wears Vile black—Death’s colour, Who should walk proudly with The noblest one Of all that purple throng— “This was my son.” |
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