Made through the middle, like a reaper’s swath,
A straight, wide roadway for the sovereign’s path.
Then rose the murmurous sound of her advance,
And, with the crown-prince, and her other brood
Led close behind, she came. Her countenance
Moved not to right nor left, until she stood
Before the tomb; yet those, who took the breath
That clothed her progress, felt a waft of death.
O noble martyr! queenliest intent!
Strong human soul, that holds to pride through all!