Algernon Stanhope. Sacred to the Memory of Algernon R.G. Stanhope (natus est 1838--obit 1847) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Sacred to the Memory of Algernon R. G. Stanhope. (natus est 1838 - obit 1847) DGR 1847 (September) autograph fair copy [1] - [6] four pages on three leaves DGR British Library Ashley 3841 grey laid paper stringed bugle on crowned shield above letters GW written on both sides of three quarto leaves Commentary
Introduction

This seems to be an early fair copy of the poem.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

Bookplate with standing female angel blowing trumpet and seated female angel. Between the two figures is a flowing banner on which is inscribed the owner's name. Below the figures and the ower's name is an inscribed poem.

THOMAS JAMES WISE HIS BOOK

BOOKS BRING ME FRIENDS WHERE'ER ON EARTH I BE. SOLACE OF SOLITUDE& BONDS OF SOCIETY! <lb/>Sacred<lb/>to the Memory<lb/>of<lb/>Algernon R. G. Stanhope<lb/>(natus est 1838 — obiit 1847) ______ “The silver cord is loosed,” he said, “The golden bowl is broken; A few more prayers having been prayed, A few more love-words spoken I shall turn my face unto the wall, And sleeping, not be woken. “Yet a short while, mamma, —dear friends, Yet but a little space, — And the shadows will have shut me in That gather round my face. But do not therefore weep; I go To Heaven, a better place.” _________ Is it a better place, my child, That thou art gone unto? Upon this earth that thou hast left Hadst thou not much to do? Would not thy joys have been a crowd And thy troubles small and few? Hadst thou not wealth, and are there not Those who do lack for bread, Who would have looked to thee, their hope, To be taught and comforted? — And the naked to be clothed by thee, And the hungry to be fed. Hadst thou not friends, and were they not Those friends who love us most I'the world? And would'st thou not have borne A name which is the boast Not of thy house alone, but all England from coast to coast? And beauty too was thine: thou hadst The look that Angels have Who from their Heaven behold our earth Where Grief is and the Grave, And joy in the many souls there are For them to help and save. And many thou hast helped, dear child, And savèd, verily; Thy spirit was a Temple for Christ-hearted charity; Yea, the loud prayers of he rescued poor Have often followed thee. And Genius lit within thy breast An upward flame and strong; — Genius, begetting Poesy, Whose hoard of hidden song, Lying at thy warm heart, would soon Have risen to thy tongue. Beauty, and rank, and friends, and wealth, Genius and excellence, — Could not all these, thy heritage, Win thee from hastening hence? Was the soul so much more unto thee Than joys of mind and sense? For nobles would have courted thee; Thou wouldst have seen thy name A star to the world; the great and wise, As sunshine to a gem, Would have been drawn to thee, —thyself Being as one of them. And, bending with an English grace, The ladies of our isle, With their soft curls and their virgin eyes Which look so sweet all the while, Had given thee for thy nobleness A precious golden smile. These will not be thine: thy life's Appointed period Being past o'er, thou liest on The folded pinions broad Of the Seraph who is bearing thee Up through the sun to God. It has a solemn sound — “to God”; And strange high thoughts it weaves Of a garden where the Tree of Life In mystic shadows gives, And the music of the rapid worlds Is the wind that stirs the leaves. Yet thou! — the brave, deep-thoughted child, Whom Love and Sympathy And Admiration gathered round And worshipped! — Can it be That there is anywhere, in truth, “A better place” for thee? Pause awhile, cherub, in thy song; Let thy curl-shaded face Lean to us from thy heavenly seat With the old childish grace; And tell us, dearest —Is it there, Truly, “a better place?” ________ What have I asked? Do I so love Life then, and cling thereby; As to make all this marvel that The heaven-home, hushed and high, Should be a better place for one So far more pure than I? Surely, it is a better place: Wealth shuts not there his ken From woes his heart yearns to assuage; Nor noble origin Wounds him by lessening trust betwixt Him and his fellow-men. Nor Genius, with sunny eyes Whose light sets like the sun, Gives to him, as to the dear child She chooseth for her own, Her laurel-wreath which maketh white The hair it resteth on; Nor friends die from him, but instead Come to him where he is; Nor Passion, rank with evil joys And worse satieties, Pouting her crimson lips at him Layeth her cheek to his; Nor priests be there, like a bad dream That at your bed's foot stands All night (and yet it goes at last!) Nor moans of king-curst lands Make his breast heave and his pale brow To drop into his hands. But Love walks always with him now; And Faith, not chained but free; And Hope, bent forward, and with hair Held back continually To hear the chariot-wheels; And wise, calm Charity. ____

September 1847