Classic Poem

BLOODY MARY .

O heartless queen, as orthodox as chaste,
Didst thou not weary of the famine-fire
Fed with sad martyr flesh that dared aspire
Only to gracious God? whose pangs disgraced

Thy dawning reign, and for all time effaced
The glorious deeds and valor of thy sire?
Wert thou of Nero blood that could not tire
To view foul slaughter on a desolate waste?

Whene'er I think of thee, I see grim men,
Masked to the chin, within the Tower-hall stand.
Thy cherished Philip was morose again. . . .
Spurned British lioness, in thy fury grand,
I watch thee sign death-warrants with swift pen,
And doom a life with one wave of thy hand.