APART, with centuries which she doth illume, The sunset on her face, around her throne Tapestried legends and heraldic stone, Silent she sits within that gorgeous gloom. Eyes narrowed in far retrospect assume Sorrows of empire. Not her dream alone Occident glories, Orients homage-prone, But more and more of Lucknow and Khartum. Along the past with heavy-lidded eyes She looks as one who knows the vision well, A quiet woman whom stately powers compel To splendour, and to silent sacrifice — For in the clare-obscure of her deep years What counter of gains hath likewise told her tears? |