The Catholic Mary now draws near her end,
Her end unmourned by England, riven sore
By enmities and strife, for friend with friend,
And kin with kin for long have been at war.
Her end has come at last, and quick relief
Is felt by those who hear the welcome news;
She flutters out just like a withered leaf
That from the hanging bough has broken loose.
Perhaps her errors now will haunt her mind,
Perhaps her persecutions slow her heart;
Perhaps in something she will solace find
Before into Eternity depart
On spirit wings her poor immortal soul –
A cry! A change o’er spreads her visage pale,
And at her side her favourite, Card’nal Pole
Discreetly o’er her features draws the veil:
Now will her queenly body sink to dust.
The people hear and make surmise. Whose sway
Would next be felt on throne? All tongues are loosed,
And murmuring the concourse moves away.