Classic Poem

At last her fortune changed.
For 'twas her fate
To win a worthier title. So, one night,
The eunuchs of her palace,—slaves whose spite
Her power had scorn'd,—conspiring its downfall,
Pluck'd the throne from her: seized her treasures all:
And drave her forth from power and wealth, to be
An exile and a pauper.
Meekly she
Surrender'd what she had so proudly worn,
Rome's Purple. And, retiring from men's scorn
To Mitylene, lived there, lone and poor:
A careworn woman at the cottage door
Spinning for bread.
The world was sad to see
What it had done, then. Men remorsefully
Remember'd, not her many evil deeds,
But her few good ones. For who counts the weeds
In any garden where, tho' desolate,
One rose remains? And, much admiring fate
So bitter borne so blameless of complaint,
The world, when speaking of her, said, “The Saint.”