All this time while the Queen was absorbed by anxious care, or passionate
grief for her mother, the health of the Prince-Consort was slowly but
surely failing. The keen blade of his active mind was wearing out its
sheath. His vital forces must have begun to give out long before actual
illness, or he would not so easily have resigned himself to the thought
of the long rest,--still young as he was, with so much to enjoy in life,
and so much to do. It is said that he had premonitions of early death,
and tried to prepare the Queen for his going first--but the realization
of a loss so immense could not find lodgment in her mind. Yet though
often feeling weak and languid, he did not relax his labors--spurring up
his flagging powers. He never lost his interest in public affairs, or in
his children's affairs of the heart. He was happy in contemplating the
happiness of his daughter Alice, and followed with his heart the journey
of his son, Albert Edward, in his visit to the country of the fierce old
Vikings, to woo the daughter of a King of another sort--a Princess so
fair and fresh that she could
--"_with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose_."
That summer his daughter Victoria, with her husband (now Crown Prince)
and their children, came again, for a long visit, and there were many
other guests, and much was done to cheer the Queen; but her first
birthday in orphanage was hopelessly sad, and when that of the Prince
came round, his last--though she wrote to her uncle, "This is the dearest
of days, and one which fills my heart with love and gratitude," she
murmured, because her "beloved mama" was not there to wish him joy.
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