death-bed of queen elizabeth.
199
THE DEATH-BED OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Restless she lies upon her couch, England's anointed Queen,
She of the bold and iron will, of stern and haughty mien.
Feeble as ever helpless child, she draws her failing breath,
And she who human power defied, bows at the call of death.
She of the bold and iron will, of stern and haughty mien.
Feeble as ever helpless child, she draws her failing breath,
And she who human power defied, bows at the call of death.
His hand of ice is on her heart, his breath upon her brow:
Where is her might, that ruthless one? what is her sceptre now?
What boots it that by sea and shore, the conquering cry ascends,
And with her name, the maiden Queen, the song of triumph blends?
Where is her might, that ruthless one? what is her sceptre now?
What boots it that by sea and shore, the conquering cry ascends,
And with her name, the maiden Queen, the song of triumph blends?
Why struggles thus her trembling frame, as seized with sudden dread?
Why in the cushion's downy depths hides she her haughty head?
Rank showers its honors on her head, nor brings her soul release;
Wealth lays its treasures at her feet,—it cannot purchase peace.
Why in the cushion's downy depths hides she her haughty head?
Rank showers its honors on her head, nor brings her soul release;
Wealth lays its treasures at her feet,—it cannot purchase peace.
