Anna Boleyn.
45
Say! did prophetic light Illume her darkening sight, Painting the future island-queen, Like the fabled bird, all hearts surprising, Bright from blood-stained ashes rising, Wise, energic, bold, serene? Ah no! the scroll of time Is sealed;—and hope sublimeRests but on those far heights which mortals may not climb.
The dying prayer, with trembling fervour, speeds For that false monarch by whose will she bleeds; For him who, listening on that fatal morn, Hears her death-signal o'er the distant lawn From the deep cannon speaking, Then springs to mirth, and winds his bugle horn, And riots while her blood is reeking:—For him she prays, in seraph tone, "Oh!—be his sins forgiven! Who raised me to an earthly throne, And sends me now, from prison lone, To be a saint in heaven."
