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 sublime
Rests but on those far heights which mortals may not climb.
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 sublime
Rests 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."
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."
