tion and the Parliament confirmed the judgment of Cranmer, for they knew it was the judgment of the king.
On the same day that Cranmer pronounced this judgment, the condemned courtiers were executed. Smeaton, on account of the inferiority of his rank, was hanged; the other four wore beheaded. Nothing was more remarkable in their deaths than that they all used an ambiguous sort of language in the few words which they addressed to the spectators, neither declaring themselves innocent nor guilty of the charge under which they suffered. The leaden weight of despotism weighed on their very souls till the rope strangled or the axe fell; and even the four who had so stoutly all through denied their guilt, seemed on the scaffold almost half to admit it. Was it that they had been only allowed to address the spectators on condition of saying nothing in prejudice of the king; or was the report of the officials, which was entered on the records, garbled by them to please their crowned master? Lord Rochford, indeed, spoke out more distinctly than the rest, for he declared that he had "never offended the king," which was, in fact, most fully asserting his innocence. Rochford was a very accomplished man, and an elegant poet, some of his poems being published along with those of his friend Sir Thomas Wyatt. He is said to have sung, on the evening before his death, a very popular lyric of his, which yet remains, and which was most applicable to his situation:—
"Farewell, my lute, this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
For ended is that we began.
Now is the song both sung and past:
My lute, be still, for I have done."
Henry VIII. seemed to have a particular pleasure in destroying genius; and, if he had committed no other crimes, his murders of Sir Thomas More, Lord Rochford, and the Earl of Surrey would make his name execrable to all time.
Queen Anne had two more days allowed her, which she spent chiefly with her confessor in devotional preparation for her death. Amid her devotions, however, she was not insensible to her reputation, for she calculated strongly on Mark Smeaton doing her that justice on the scaffold for which the hope of life had made him too weak. But when she heard that he had not, she exclaimed indignantly, "Has he not, then, cleared me from the public shame he hath done me? Alas! I fear his soul will suffer from the false witness he hath borne. My brother and the rest are now, I doubt not, before the face of the greater King, and I shall follow to-morrow." Like her brother, she endeavoured to soothe her agitated spirit with poetry. The following stanzas, composed by her after her condemnation, show that she possessed talents too good to have been stifled in the Court of a sensual despot like Henry VIII.:—
"Death, rock me asleep,
Bring on my quiet rest;
Let pass my very guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Ring out the doleful knell;
Let its sound my death tell,
For I must die.
There's no remedy,
For how I die!
"My pains who can express?
Alas! they are so strong,
My dolour will not suffer strength,
My life for to prolong!
Alone, in prison strange,
I wan my destiny.
Woe worth this cruel hap, that
Should taste this misery!
"Farewell, my pleasures past;
Welcome, my present pain:
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain.
Sound now the passing-bell,
Rung is my doleful knell,
For its sound my death doth tell
Death doth draw nigh,
Sound the knell dolefully,
For now I die!"
Two stanzas, also said to have been written at the same time, express her sense of the infamy cast upon her, and her firm conviction that it would not endure:—
"Defiled is my name full sore,
Through cruel spite and false report,
That I may say, for evermore,
Farewell to joy; adieu, comfort.
"For wrongfully ye judge of me.
Unto my fame a mortal wound:
Say what ye list, it may not be,
Ye seek for that shall not be found."
With all the merits attributed to her as a Church reformer, Anne died a decided Roman Catholic. She not only made full use of confession, but also received the sacraments according to the doctrine of consubstantiation. One confession also she made, which showed that the memory of her rigorous treatment of the ill-used child of Catherine, the Princess Mary, lay heavily upon her in that hour. This is Speed's account of the circumstance:—"The day before she suffered death, being attended by six ladies in the Tower, she took the Lady Kingston into her presence-chamber, and there, locking the door upon them, willed her to sit down in the chair of state. Lady Kingston answered, that 'it was her duty to stand, and not to sit at all in her presence, much less upon the seat of state of her the queen.' 'Ah! madam,' replied Anne, 'that title is gone: I am a condemned person, and by law have no estate left me in this life; but for clearing of my conscience, I pray you sit down.' 'Well,' said Lady Kingston. 'I have often played the fool in my youth, and to fulfil your command, I will do it once more in mine age,' and thereupon sat down under the cloth of estate upon the throne. Then the queen most humbly fell on her knees before her, and, holding up her hands with tearful eyes, charged her, 'as in the presence of God and his angels, and as she would answer to her before them when all should appear to judgment, that she would so fall down before the Lady Mary's grace, her daughter-in-law, and in like manner ask her forgiveness for the wrongs she had done her; for till that was accomplished,' she said, 'her conscience could not be quiet.'"
Friday, the 19th of May, was the day fixed for her execution, and on that morning she rose at two o'clock and resumed her devotions with her almoner. She sent for Sir William Kingston to be witness to her last solemn protest of her innocence before taking the sacrament. As Henry had wantonly tantalised her with the hope of life after her condemnation, he now again put her on the rack of suspense by leaving the hour of her execution un-
