As she looks a look at the staring clay,
And wordless and frowning turns away.

Yet again she turns and stoops her down,
And darker and feller yet grows her frown.

A fair long tress her dagger has shorn;
That tress her page to the King has borne.

"A wifely gift to the Queen's Lord sent." O but the grim King strode his tent,

With a wounded lion's growl and glare,
As he ground his teeth o'er the pale tress there.

As through his set teeth there raged an oath,
And he plighted again, to the dead, his troth.

And an oath of vengeance he fiercely swore
To the white cold one he should see no more.

Well for you is it, darksome Queen,
The ocean rolls you and your Lord between!

Else small his mercy, and short the shrift

Of her who her hand 'gainst the Clifford dared lift.

Yet better were that than your fearsome doom,

That gives you, Queen, to a living tomb;

That gives your fierce life, day by day,
In a dungeon's darkness to chafe away,

To chafe and to rage, and to vainly tear
At the grate that bars you from light and air,

Your rage or your patience to him the same
To whom your token of vengeance came.

Till your blood grow tame and your fierce heart feel For pardon it well could grovel and kneel.

For the feel of the breeze and the warm free sun, It could half wish its vengeful deed undone.

In Godstowe nunnery's shadowy gloom,
Was "Rosa Mundi" carved on a tomb,

And the tomb's side white fair roses crept up,
Cunningly twined round a carven cup.

Prayed for with mass and with holy prayer,
Chant and hymn, the Clifford lay there.

Still and carven in fair white stone,

She lay in the quiet choir alone,

Till Lincoln's bishop, Hugh, passed that way,
And enter'd the holy choir to pray,

And seeing that tomb, more fair than all,

With its lights of wax and its silken pall,

And learning there Henry's light love lay,
Commanded straight she be borne away,

Holding her pomp the Church's disgrace,
Spurning her sin from its resting-place.

Now, Mary Mother, more mercy show,
Than living, or dead, she knew below!

Now God, from her soul, assoil all sin,
And give her at last unto bliss to win!

For what better bait can the Devil fling
For a woman's soul, than the love of a King?

Heaven rest her soul, and shield us all,
And aid us to stand, and not to fall!

And, Mary Mother, give us to rest
At last in bliss with the Saints so blest!

54

IN WARWICK CASTLE.

1460.

O AXE, blue axe, rejoice;

O thirsting block have cheer; I hear a welcome voice;

It tells your feast is near; Upon your scaffold board

Shall lie right royal food; Of blood of knight and lord,

Your wine shall be right good;

The feast is heaped and choice;
Red block, blue axe, rejoice.

O thirsting sword, have joy;
Whet thee in tower and hall;

From peace's dull annoy

Thou shalt have festival; Thou shalt have fierce glad dance, Shrill song from fosse and field, Rounds shared with helm and lance, Songs clashed from mail and shield;

O sword, be keen to hear;

Thy time of joy is near.

O towers and silent halls,

Great Warwick's bowers give ear; Mirth shall be in your walls;

Gladness shall cast out fear;