V

Strange love they have given you, love disloyal, Who mock with praise your name, To leave a head so rare and royal Too low for praise or blame.

You could not love nor hate, they tell us, You had nor sense nor sting: In God's name, then, what plague befell us To fight for such a thing?

"Some faults the gods will give," to fetter Man's highest intent: But surely you were something better Than innocent!

No maid that strays with steps unwary Through snares unseen, But one to live and die for; Mary, The Queen.