Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate? And she, contemptuous victim once of hate And score of plots, plunges her naked sword Thrice through the arras, which had never stirred-- Afraid!--_Elizabeth?_ Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old, She shivers, this gay daughter of a gold Entrancing age. The debonair gallant Who sang her, now the mocking sycophant. The ministers she trusted, gone. The throne She loved with all her passion, left for one Of stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, she Shrinks from the new and cold sobriety Of chill advancing fashion. Only Death To woo this poor--this great Elizabeth! Was ever woman quite so lonely? The Plea of the Antarctic The best people to judge are those who served under Captain Scott. Had we been in the same place as the victims we should have wished our bodies to remain at rest where we had given our best efforts in the cause we earnestly believed in.--COMMANDER EVANS. Out of the ice-bound realms a clear voice said, "Give me the right to bury my great dead. No green-girt lands can honour them as I, Nor wrap them round in such pale purity. "Leave them with me, alone in my white world, Place England's flag above their cairns unfurled. I need great souls! Great Hero souls to bless And consecrate my snowy wilderness." The Stranger in London 'Tis a big, big place!-- And the clouds that gather the grey skies in Are frayed by chimneys black and old, Serried stacks of grime and sin. And every road and every street Has a secret tale to guard and hold, Mid the echoing tones of passing feet. Oh weary place! Brimmed up with life, confused in sound, I have little part in your daily round, For I wander lonely--stranger bound. There are houses surely which open their door To those they know, For me they stand in a formal row Story on story, floor upon floor, Shielding themselves from the crimson sun, From the on-rolling mutter Of traffic and wagon, of footstep and cry, With curtain and shutter. Mute houses which shun All light, sound and me Inexorably. Sometimes when I toss on my pillow at night, When the spluttering rain Spreads the smuts on the pane, I dream that those mansions relax their grim pride And opening wide Their intimate hearts to me, Chill taciturnity Melts in the warmth of rich colour and fire. Vast halls are alight With radiant desire To show hospitality. Lavish regality Squanders the staircase in flowers and green. And I wander unseen Through the great pillared corridors, kiss the soft red Of the shimmering hangings; the sensuous glow Ablaze in the hearth thrills me throughly, I know There is place for me there, in those homes I thought dead.