44
ANNA BOLEYN.
She came as a lamb to the lion's lair, As the light bird cleaves the fields of air,And carols blithe and sweet, while Treachery weaves its snare.
Think!—what were her pangs as she traced her fate On that changeful monarch's brow of hate? What were the thoughts which, at midnight hour, Throng'd o'er her soul, in yon dungeon tower? Regret, with pencil keen, Retouch'd the deep'ning scene: Gay France, which bade with sunny skies Her careless childhood's pleasures rise; Earl Percy's love, his youthful grace, Her gallant brother's fond embrace; Her stately father's feudal halls,Where proud heraldic annals deck'd the ancient walls.
Wrapt in the scaffold's gloom, Brief tenant of that living tomb She stands!—the life-blood chills her heart, And her tender glance from earth does part; But her infant daughter's image fair In the smile of innocence is there, It clings to her soul 'mid its last despair; And the desolate queen is doom'd to knowHow far a mother's grief transcends a martyr's woe.
