Dear To The Loves, And To The Graces Vowed, The Queen Drew Back The Wimple That She Wore; And To The Throng, That On The Cumbrian Shore Her Landing Hailed, How Touchingly She Bowed! And Like A Star (That, From A Heavy Cloud Of Pine-Tree Foliage Poised In Air, Forth Darts, When A Soft Summer Gale At Evening Parts The Gloom That Did Its Loveliness Enshroud) She Smiled; But Time, The Old Saturnian Seer, Sighed On The Wing As Her Foot Pressed The Strand, With Step Prelusive To A Long Array Of Woes And Degradations Hand In Hand Weeping Captivity, And Shuddering Fear Stilled By The Ensanguined Block Of Fotheringay!