QUEEN ELIZABETH

DYING, and loth to die, and long'd 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 spar'd me all my days. Tudor, the grand old race, may pass away; Stuart, the weak and false, awaits your praise.

Essex, my murder'd darling, tender one, Should have been here, my people, but for you;

SONNET

dear faults, Have I not right to pardon, as a queen?

Truly, 't is hard to rule, 't is sore to love, All my life long the two have torn my heart;

Now that the end has come, all things to prove,

I but repent me of my chosen part.

Now to my mother's God, who dwells afar,

Come I, a broken queen, a woman old; Smirch'd with the miry way my soul hath trod,

Weary of life as with a tale twice told. Thou who dost know what ingrate subjects are,

Hear me, assoil, receive me, God, my God.

A cry was heard, inton'd and slow,

Of one who had no wares to vend : His words were gentle, dull, and low,

And he call'd out, "Old souls to
mend!"

He peddled on from door to door,
And look'd not up to rich or poor.

His step kept on as if in pace

With some old timepiece in his head, Nor ever did its way retrace;

Nor right nor left turn'd he his tread, But utter'd still his tinker's cry To din the ears of passers-by.

So well they knew the olden note

Few heeded what the tinker spake, Though here and there an ear it smote

And seem'd a sudden hold to take; But they had not the time to stay, And it would do some other day.

Still on his way the tinker wends,

Though jobs be far between and few; But here and there a soul he mends

And makes it look as good as new.
Once set to work, once fairly hir'd,
His dull old hammer seems inspir'd.

Over the task his features glow;

He knocks away the rusty flakes; A spark flies off at every blow;

At every rap new life awakes. The soul once cleans'd of outward sins, His subtle handicraft begins.

Like iron unanneal'd and crude,

The soul is plunged into the blast ;

To temper it, however rude,

'Tis next in holy water cast;

Then on the anvil it receives
The nimblest stroke the tinker gives.

The tinker's task is at an end:

Stamp'd was the cross by that last blow.
Again his cry, "Old souls to mend !"
Is heard in accents dull and low.
He pauses not to seek his pay,
That too will do another day.

One stops and says, "This soul of mine
Has been a tidy piece of ware,