There is a tradition that Essex had elicited from Queen Elizabeth a ring as a token of confidence, with the assurance that if ever he should incur her displeasure, or need her assistance, by the production of the said ring she should be pacified, or that assistance given. Afterwards the Earl was impeached for high treason, tried, and condemned, when to the last the Queen anxiously awaited the forthcoming of the token which should have secured his pardon. The talisman did not come, and the Earl was executed. Years after, the Queen discovered that the Earl had, by a confidant, sent to her the ring, but that from malicious motives it had not been delivered, whereat she went nearly frantic, and died a few days after of a broken heart.
'TIS dead of night. Within a cloud
The blood-red moon half shrouded lies;
A comet flares above; aloud
'Tu-whit, to-whoo!' the owlet cries.

In such an hour in yonder tower,
Why doth Britannia's Queen and pride
A vigil keep? To sigh and weep
For one who at the block hath died.

'O Essex, oh, my joy and woe
Did on thy joy and love depend;
And, Essex, I was doomed to sigh
That day which saw thy dismal end.

'The ring I gave in moments fled,
Had'st thou to me that ring but sent,
Thy precious blood had not been shed,
These bosom chords had not been rent.

'But thou would'st die, and I must sigh,
Tho' slander dogs the heels of fame,
And would deny the fact that I
Could ever feel affection's flame.

'They say I'm proud, tho' not aloud—
It's spoken in a bitter tone;
Tho' not aloud, they say I'm proud,
And that my heart's a heart of stone.

'Ah, could the world the veil up-lift—
These tinsel trappings—and survey
My soul on storm-tost seas adrift,
How would they start at the display?

'My tenderness has not come short
Of hers whose tears had thawed the churl;
I've been the dupe, if not the sport,
Of passions worthy of a girl.

'And he on whom my hope was built,
Ah, even he, a cruel act!—
Immersed me in a sea of guilt,
Then left me with a bosom rack'd.

'How could his pride the block have dyed
With his own crimson drops, before
To me he'd yield, to me his shield,
From faction's fangs in the days of yore.

'How could—but wasn't his pride so vast
Upon himself the blow that dealt?
In agony what if I sigh
For one who mocked the touch I felt?

'For one who scorned the royal ire?
Despised the feelings of this breast?
Possessed me with a base desire
To make of me a brothel jest?

'Awake, my soul! exert thy power;
Another mine terrific sprung,
Take up thy burden, and this hour
Be, be it into Lethe flung.

'Awake, and—oh!'—thus did she sigh—
'Thou cruel Essex!'—when her ears
Are startled by a din, and by
Her side a troubled dame appears.

'The Lady Nottingham to-night—
This hour—upon her death-bed lies,
And lying in this woeful plight,
'Go, bring the Monarch!' raves and cries.

'A secret rankles in her soul,
The which she seems right fain to speak;
But when she tries, her eye-balls roll,
And heavy sighs the sentence break.'

For coach and steed at this with speed
The Monarch calls in reason's spite,
And Queen, and guard, and coach and steed,
Soon hurry thro' the vault of night.

Away they dart, the fleetful hart
Not fleeter from the hounds away!
From bush and tree the small birds flee,
One strikes the driver, in dismay.

O'er hills they hie, thro' dales that lie
In shadows deep, they onward dash
Where at the beat of steel-shod feet
Live sparks from out the pebbles flash.

The clang, crash, squeal of hoof and wheel,
The shriek of birdie in despair,
Their echoes wake or blend and make
Dire music on the midnight air.

Tho' dire it be as on they flee,
Our riders heed it not. One thought,
But one they know, and that is how
They best may win the goal sought.

The groom's 'whohoa' the ward's 'holoa,'
Are heard now in yon hall, wherein
In woeful wise a lady dies,
And she—she moveth at the din.

Yet mark not this a trusty band,
Who with o'er-burden'd feeling watch
That moment when death's cold, cold hand
Shall life from her endearments snatch.

In truth the tear bedims their sight,
And had conceal'd the fact, had they
Possessed a light more pure and bright
Than what their sickly lamps display.

Too, man's but man; and how-be-it
The spirit would her task fulfil,
The senses weary and remit
Their aptness to obey the will.

Three nights have vanished since her end
Appear'd but on the threshold; lo!
A bitter thing to see a friend
Thus struggling with the common foe.

So feel they, muse they, cry 'Ah, me!'
Or whisper low, or shake the head,
When nears the mighty Queen, and see!
The dying riseth on her bed.

The band that ties her hair unties,
Her hair a-down her shoulders strays;
A gleam re-lights her sunken eyes,
And o'er her ghastly features plays.

'Well thou art here,' she gasps, 'and well
With death I've striven to reveal
What, what it racks my soul to tell,
And doubly racks it to conceal.

'When he who late for treason bled,
Had let the Spanish feel his sword,
The fame on which his spirit fed,
Was it not graced by your regard?

'Then gave you not to him a ring,
Averring 'If at any time
Thou shalt my frown upon thee bring,
Show that and I'll forgive the crime?'

'He took that ring, the period came
When he did need its magic might;
He gave it me to give—my shame!—
It never met his monarch's sight.

'My lord to Essex being a foe,
Prevailed on me to keep the boon;
The rest is known.'—A moment, now,
Her majesty is turned to stone.

Her late flushed cheeks are bleak and blanched,
Her eyes shoot forth a frantic glare;
Her lips are writhed, her hands are clenched,
And in their grasp her up-torn hair.

'Hell and damnation eat thee up—
The seven vials the prophet saw
Be thine,' at last she cried, 'to sup
For this base breach of human law.

'Great God, protect me, I am mad—
This trial is too much for one
With might until this moment clad
To trample death and terror down.

'Kingdoms have trembled at my frown,
Or at my smile have danced for joy
But now the star of glory's flown,
That shone upon the hours gone by.

'Ah, never more! ah, never more
Will joy, will peace to me return!'
This said, she sank upon the floor,
And there remained her woes to mourn.

Nor could she be consoled, nor would,
But rather nursed her mind's distress;
Till sorrow gave her to her shroud,
And thus did end the Good Queen Bess.