So she dwelt in the marble palace, And dined from a golden plate, And slept in a silken chamber, And sat in the chair of state. And whenever she went riding The people with cheers would greet, And maidens and little children With blossoms would strew the street. And royally thus lived Mabel, Her only task—to command; Servants, unnumbered, ready To move at the wave of her hand; And alway about her lingered Gay courtiers, a dazzling throng; And the blithe hours swiftly flitted With story, and dance, and song. But often herself she questioned, As she sat on the gilded throne, “How is it with them, I wonder— How is it with them at home?” As the palace with mirth and music Echoed and rang, one night, The people peered through the windows, Watching the festive sight: And a beggar in rags and tatters, Listening, shook his fist; “What right have they to be merry When my little ones starve?” he hissed. And the people his words repeated: “What right, to be sure?” they said, “Flaunting in silks and diamonds While our little ones cry for bread.” And ever, as thus they murmured, Louder their voices grew, Till, all in a red-hot anger, To the palace doors they flew. And the sentinels, at each entrance, Quickly they put to flight, And hurried with cries and clamor Into the halls so bright— Into the halls of marble, With clubs and with axes armed, Till the sound of their shouts and curses The courtiers hearing, alarmed, Fled in their silks and diamonds, Leaving the queen alone. On rushed the riotous rabble, Making its way to the throne, And they who had “Hail Queen Mabel!” Shouted with loyal will, Now aloft their cruel weapons Brandished, intent to kill. Then she shrieked for help in her terror, Never a friend came nigh. So, as the crowd drew nearer, Sudden she turned to fly; And casting aside the purple robe And the heavy golden crown, Away and away she hastened, To the meadows she wandered down; Down to the meadows wandered, Hastened away and away, Till the birds and the dewy blossoms Were roused by the dawning day. But the world it was sad and silent, Clouded and gray the morn, As wearily on she wandered, Wearily and forlorn. The burnie it went complaining, Fretting its way along, Making no pleasant music, Singing no pleasant song; And ever as in the hedges She came to a sweet wild rose, At the touch of her queenly fingers The petals would sadly close. Once did she call, “Sing, birdies!” But the little birds were dumb: “Come to me as you used to!” But they, fearing, would not come.