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QUEEN ELIZABETH.
DYING, and loth to die, and longed to die ;
Is there no pity, O my land, my land ?
Is it as naught to you, ye passers-by ?
Will ye not, for a moment, listening stand ?
Who shall come after me, is what ye pray;
Truly ye have not spared me all my days.
Tudor, the grand old race, may pass away :
Stuart the weak and false, awaits your praise.
Essex, my murdered darling, tender one,
Should have been here, my people, but for you ;
Now he but haunts me, — oh my son, my son !
Would that the queen had erred, the friend been true
