Poems Sigourney 1827/Death of Wolsey

by Lydia Sigourney

DEATH OF WOLSEY.

At Leicester Abbey, November 29th, 1530.

The tint of Autumn's closing day,
    On Leicester-Abbey shone,
And pensively that fading ray
    Gleam'd o'er the fretted stone;
While slowly 'neath its portal arch
    The mitred Abbot came,
With crosier leading on the march
    Of all his ghostly train.

Each monk in sable stole appear'd,
    With studious care array'd,
For tramp of coursers' feet was heard
    To echo through the glade.
A martial band, with measured tread,
    Approach'd that lone abode,
And sad and silent at their head
    The prelate Wolsey rode.

He, at whose nod the noble blood
    Of *^[1]Buckingham was shed,
That princely peer, who boldly stood
    Next to the crowned head;
He, who with arrogance unblamed
    St. Peter's chair had eyed,
Alike for wealth and learning famed,
    For policy and pride.

But where the silver cross, and plume?
    The costly velvet pall?
The gaudy train to cry, "make room
    For my lord cardinal!"
Why doth he, with dejected air,
    Thus bend on earth his eye?
And to the Abbot's greeting fair,
    Where is the prompt reply?

For faintly was he heard to say
    With voice of faultering sound,
"I come these weary bones to lay
    Within your hallow'd ground."
His sadness damp'd their welcome free,
    With folded arms they stood,
A broken-hearted man was he,
    Bereft of earthly good.

Then softly to his guarded cell
    The holy vesper stole,
But who the fatal strife may tell
    Which rack'd that mighty soul?
Ambition's rankling goad was there
    To break the dream of rest,
And death came on with dark despair
    To blanch the haughty breast.

What gleam'd upon his glazing sight?
    His proud cathedral-towers?
Or York-house, rich with golden light?
    Or Richmond's royal bowers?
Did visions of perverted powers
    Wake Penitence to pray

With streaming eyes o'er sinful hours?
    Spirit of Mercy, say!

Suffolk and Norfolk, fiery peers,
    Their rival's exit blest,
And stern Northumberland with tears
    His vengeful joy exprest.
But bluff king Hal with vacant eye
    Gazed long on Ann Boleyne,
And in a deep and sorrowing sigh
    Forgot his spoused queen.

Yet light as air that monarch's wo,
    And lighter still his love,
And ah! how false his holiest vow
    The scaffold oft did prove.—
How vain that king who proudly swerves
    From paths by wisdom trod,
But vainer still, the man who serves
    His king before his God.

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1.  

   *Charles V. Emperor of Germany, at hearing of the execution of Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, said, "The butcher's dog hath worried the fairest hart in England," alluding to the low parentage of Wolsey.