  Only So lonely, Was ever woman quite so lonely? Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchanged For nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged, Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor, Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before— Elizabeth. Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrown That gorgeous England, which was once her own. Those solemn courtiers pacing to and fro Outside the palace, neither care nor know The dying Queen is lonely! Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate? And she, contemptuous victim once of hate And score of plots, plunges her naked sword Thrice through the arras, which had never stirred— Afraid!—Elizabeth? Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old, She shivers, this gay daughter of a gold Entrancing age. The debonair gallant Who sang her, now the mocking sycophant. She loved with all her passion, left for one Of stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, she Shrinks from the new and cold sobriety Of chill advancing fashion. Only Death To woo this poor—this great Elizabeth! Was ever woman quite so lonely? |
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