Beyond the city walls, across a stretch
Of the green open country, where abode
Her subjects, happy in the field and grange,
And with their griefs, that took a meaner range,
Content. But as her joyless vision dwelt
On beauty that so failed her wound to heal,
She marked the Abbey’s ancient pile, and felt
A longing at its chapel-shrine to kneel,
To pray, and think awhile on Heaven,—her one
Sole passion, now the Prince had thither gone.