hint
     Her forces gathering:  she the thrown
     From station, lopped of an arm, astounded, lone,
     Reading late History as a foul misprint: 
     Imperial, Angelical,
     At strife commingled in her frame convulsed;
     Shame of her broken sword, a ravening gall;
     Pain of the limb where once her warm blood pulsed;
     These tortures to distract her underneath
     Her whelmed Aurora’s shade.  But in that space
     When lay she dumb beside her trampled wreath,
     Like an unburied body mid the tombs,
     Feeling against her heart life’s bitter probe
     For life, she saw how children of her race,
     The many sober sons and daughters, plied,
     By cottage lamplight through the water-globe,
     By simmering stew-pots, by the serious looms,
     Afield, in factories, with the birds astir,
     Their nimble feet and fingers; not denied
     Refreshful chatter, laughter, galliard songs. 
     So like Earth’s indestructible they were,
     That wrestling with its anguish rose her pride,
     To feel where in each breast the thought of her,
     On whom the circle Hours laid leaded thongs,
     Was constant; spoken sometimes in low tone
     At lip or in a fluttered look,
     A shortened breath:  and they were her loved own;
     Nor ever did they waste their strength with tears,
     For pity of the weeper, nor rebuke,
     Though mainly they were charged to pay her debt,
     The Mother having conscience in arrears;
     Ready to gush the flood of vain regret,
     Else hearken to her weaponed children’s moan
     Of stifled rage invoking vengeance:  hell’s,
     If heaven should fail the counter-wave that swells
     In blood and brain for retribution swift. 
     Those helped not:  wings to her soul were these who yet
     Could welcome day for labour, night for rest,
     Enrich her treasury, built of cheerful thrift,
     Of honest heart, beyond all miracles;
     And likened to Earth’s humblest were Earth’s best.

     IV

     Brooding on her deep fall, the many strings
     Which formed her nature set a thought on Kings,
     As aids that might the low-laid cripple lift;
     And one among them hummed devoutly leal,
     While passed the sighing breeze along her breast. 
     Of Kings by the festive vanquishers rammed down
     Her gorge since fell the Chief, she knew their crown;
     Upon her through long seasons was its grasp,
     For neither soul’s nor body’s weal;
     As much bestows the robber wasp,
     That in the hanging apple makes a meal,
     And carves a face of abscess where was fruit
     Ripe ruddy.  They would blot
     Her radiant leap above the slopes acute,
     Of summit to celestial; impute
     The wanton’s aim to her divinest shot;
     Bid her walk History