Classic Poem

I am too soon grown old.
The care of England through the troubled years,
While foes were plotting, courtiers flattering me,
Hath seared my heart and wintered my young blood.
My soul is sick of craft and sophistry.
Of those who sought the favor of the queen,
All came with protestations insincere;
Whose then the blame if I am bitter grown?
Stoutly I stood for England while her foes
With fury rent the continental lands;
Held back the rage of warrior-hearted chiefs
Who urged me to a strife. I kept aloof
From that wild scene where Europe was aflame;
So, while their thrones grew weak, England was strong,
Without the cost of men or ships or gold.

Yet have I never lightly held in check
The fixèd will of Lords and Parliament;
But by concession kept my power secure
And England's welfare mine. I ne'er destroyed
My bitterest foe but he was England's too.
I gave my confidence to honest men,
And furtherance to all that was of worth.
And ever when the great of England fell
My heart was desolated with the land.

My kingdom doth with sorrow bear the loss
Of Spenser. Hast thou scanned his Faerie Queen?
'Tis such a web of dreams as no one else
In all the realm so dext'rously could spin.
When first I tasted of his art, I praised
His talent to Lord Burleigh, forasmuch
As no great earl by taking utmost thought
And wasting time and candle through the night,
Has framed one noble stanza like to those
In which this Spenser hath ensured my name
Against the tooth of time. Cecil opposed
My wish to pay some fifty public pounds
A year to give the poet sustenance.
He found the queen was firm; the pounds were paid.
Some dreams are stronger than a battle host.
A phrase well turned may beat an empire down.
To feed the hungry heart doth more avail
Than to defeat a thousand armèd foes
Or cram with bread the world's cavernous maw.

Now Burleigh too is dead, and Walsingham.
Their statecraft was a bulwark to the throne.
Their wisdom guided all my councillors.
How much our strength and fame are due to these,
Who shall decide? The lustre of my reign
Is noonday bright with fame of those who fill
The storied years with wisdom, daring deed,
And lofty song. To know great men from small
Is greatness; in which test I sometimes fail.
Nathless, I wis that England hath those still
In whom are found the unmistaken marks
Of strong, full-natured manhood. One day's fight
Against the mightiest squadron of the world
Gave Howard, Hawkins, Drake and Frobisher
Renown more permanent upon the main
Than all their pirate exploits of the sea,
And humbled Philip's widowed heart far more
Than my emphatic “No!” Are these men great?
They have a wit that knows the ocean storms,
And that, I trow, is greatness in some sort.
Our sex gives honour to robust renown,
But brooks no dalliance with a coward heart.

John Knox hath honest strength and sturdiness.
Fanatic, churlish, dour, yet all sincere,
He wins the Scottish heart to solemn ways
With quite infectious power. I'm proud of him
That he is strong, yet cannot like his ways.
And there are those whose wisdom doth avail
To open mines disclosing richest veins
Of knowledge. Bacon tells of roads to truth
More sure than those we travel on. We trust,
Saith he, foundations insecure, receive
Traditions, cherish false philosophies,
And imitate the wise, stuffing our skulls
With crude opinions, as my father's men
Stuffed out their clothing when the king grew fat.

Since Philip Sidney is with us no more,
None can with Raleigh meet the sudden call
For subtle courtesie and nimble wit—
A trait that pleaseth me. But over all
Those stars that beam across our firmament
The glory of their constellated blaze,
Making the times august and England great,
Will Shakespeare's steadily increasing light
Doth wax most bright and as a virginal,
When touched by master fingers, lifts the soul
To heights of song, the pen, in Shakespeare's hand
Becomes an instrument of flame, a torch,
A beacon fire. His art transfigures life,
Turns ink to music, words to sculptured wit.
From out his vivid portraiture plain facts
Leap to an unsuspected dignity.
The noblest dramas flow in wizard phrase
Out of his dreams. Deeds slough their dross,
And days are heralds of the golden age.

Remove my gown and farthingale and all
That garnisheth with foreign youthfulness
Hateful to me seeing I need it so.
Tomorrow, to the knightly jousts I ride.
Let slumber work meanwhile, else weariness,
In every feature speaking, shall defy
Thine utmost heart.