III.

To their great sires, to whom thy youth was known, Who from thy smile, as laurels from the sun Drank the immortal greenness of renown, Succeeds the cold lip-homage scantly won From the new race whose hearts already bear The Wise-man's offerings to th' unworthy Heir. Watching the glass in which the sands run low,-- Hovers keen Cecil with his falcon eyes, And musing Bacon[F] bends his marble brow.-- But deem not fondly there To weep the fate or pour th' averting prayer Attend those solemn spies! Lo, at the Regal Gate The impatient couriers wait; To speed from hour to hour the nice account That registers the grudged unpitied sighs Vexing the friendless void, before The Stuart's step shall reeling mount Tudor's steep throne, red with his Mother's gore!