II.

Yet oft she turns from face to face, A keen and wistful gaze, As if the memory seeks to trace The sign of some lost dwelling-place Beloved in happier days;-- Ah, what the clue supplies In the cold vigil of a hireling's eyes? Ah, sad in childless age to weep alone, Look round and find no grief reflect our own!-- O Soul, thou speedest to thy rest away, But not upon the pinions of the dove; When death draws nigh, how miserable they Who have outlived all love! As on the solemn verge of Night Lingers a weary Moon, Thou wanest last of every glorious light That bathed with splendour thy majestic noon:-- The stately stars that clustering o'er the isle Lull'd into glittering rest the subject sea;-- Gone the great Masters of Italian wile, False to the world beside, but true to thee!-- Burleigh, the subtlest builder of thy fame,-- The serpent craft of winding Walsingham;-- They who exalted yet before thee bow'd: And that more dazzling chivalry--the Band That made thy Court a Faery Land, In which thou wert enshrined to reign alone-- The Gloriana of the Diamond Throne;-- All gone,--and left thee sad amidst the cloud.