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Upon the prostrate world. The doom is said,

Exhausted she sank down upon her knees,

The doom must be."-"Ha! Man with heart of clay, Her knees that fainted under her." Ye can,

To answer with that cold and steadfast mien;

Oh, I'll go back and sue the dead again,
There's more forgiveness in the cold deaf corpse
Than the warm keen-ear'd living. From that vault
I felt sweet reconcilement stealing up,

That turn'd my tears to honey dew: here, all,
All sullen and relentless on me glares.
I ask not for myself, not for myself,

The ice of death is round my heart, there long
I've felt the slow consuming prey, I feel
The trembling ebb of my departing life.
That hoary head, though granted to my prayers,
Shall never rest upon my failing knee,
The father that ye give me back (I feel

Ye give him, thou that bear'st the Avenger's name,
I know thee by a milder character,)
That father cannot long be mine; his hands
May lay me in the grave, his eyes may weep
For they can weep, although ye think it not;
Those hands ye deem for ever blood-embrued,
I've felt them fondling with my golden hair,
When with gay childish foot I danced to meet
His far-resounding horn. That horn shall sound,
But on my deaf and earth-closed ears no more,
No more."-" Rowena, when a Nation speaks,
The irrevocable sentence cannot change."

Then up her fair round arm she raised, and wrapt
Like a rich mantle round her; her old pride
As the poetic Juno in the clouds
Walking in her majestic ire, while slow
Before her th' azure-breasted peacocks draw
Her chariot.-"Tell me, thou that sitt'st elate,
And ye, who call yourself this British realm,
By what new right ye judge a German King?
Where are your charters, where your scrolls of law
Whose bright and blazon'd titles give ye power
To pass a doom on crowned head? Down, down,
Ye bold Usurpers of the Judgment seat,
Insolent doomers of a sacred life,
Beyond your sphere to touch, your grasp to seize."

"Lady, we judge by the adamantine law, That lives within the eternal soul of man, That God-enacted charter, Blood for blood."" 28

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Ye will not show unto a woman's eyes
That bloody consummation, not to mine.
Oh, thou that speakest in that brazen tone
Implacable, the last time thou and I

Discoursed, thy voice was broken, tender, soft,
Remember'st thou? 't was then as it had caught
The trembling of the moonlight, that lay round
With rapturous disquiet bathing us.
Remember'st thou?"- Almost the Judgment sword
Fell from the Avenger's failing hand, but firm
He grasp'd it, and with eyes to heaven upturn'd,
'Oh, duty, duty, why art thou so stern?"
Then, "Lady, lo, the headsman with his steel;
To that dark Priest 't is given to sacrifice
The victim of to-day-depart! depart!
Colours may flow too deep for woman's sight.
And sounds may burst too drear for woman's ear."

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Stately as lily on a sunshine bank,

Shaken from its curl'd leaves the o'ercharging dew,
Freshens and strengthens its bow'd stem, so white
So brightening to a pale cold pride, a faint
And trembling majesty, Rowena sate.
On Hengist's dropping lip and knitted brow
Was mockery at her fate-opposing prayer,

And that was all. But she-" Proud-hearted Men,
Ye vainly deem your privilege, your right,
Prerogative of your high-minded race,
The glory of endurance, and the state
Of strong resolving fortitude. Here I,
A woman born to melt and faint and fail,
A frail, a delicate, dying woman, sit

To shame ye." She endured the flashing stroke
Of th' axe athwart her eyesight, and the blood
That sprung around her she endured: still kept
The lily its unbroken stateliness,
And its pellucid beauty sparkled, still,
But all its odours were exhaled-the breath
Of life, the tremulous motion was at rest;
A flower of marble on a temple wall,

"T was fair but lived not, glitter'd but was cold. While from the headless corpse t' its great account Went fiercely forth the Pagan's haughty soul.

337

Anne Boleyn;

A DRAMATIC POEM.

INTRODUCTION.

THE subject of the following Drama had long appeared to me peculiarly adapted to the purposes of Poetry. I had, some time ago, imagined a sketch, in a great degree similar to that which I have now filled up. The course of professional Study, which led me to the early Annals of our Church, recalled it to my remembrance, and, as it were, forced it on my attention. In the outline of the Plot, and the development of the characters, especially that of Anne Boleyn, I have endeavoured to preserve historical truth: where History is silent, I have given free scope to poetic license, and introduced a character entirely imaginary. In endeavouring to embody that awful spirit of fanaticism-the more awful, because strictly conscientious --which was arrayed against our early Reformers, I hope to be considered as writing of those times alone. The representation of the manner in which bigotry hardens into intolerance, intolerance into cruelty and an infringement on the great eternal principles of morality, can never be an unprofitable lesson. The Annals of all Nations, in which Reformation was begun or completed; those of the League in France, of the Low Countries and Spain, as well as of England, will fully bear me out in the picture which I have drawn; but I have no hesitation in asserting that even in those times the wise and good among the Roman Catholics reprobated, as strongly as ourselves, the sanguinary and unprincipled means by which the Power of the Papacy was maintained. I should observe, that I have, I trust with no unpardonable anachronism, anticipated the perfect organization of that Society, from which, as Robertson has with justice stated, "mankind have derived more advantages, and received greater injuries, than from any other of the religious fraternities." Though its Founder had already made many proselytes, the Society was not formally incorporated till about five years after the death of Anne Boleyn.

It may appear almost superfluous to add, that the manner in which the Poem is written, as well as the religious nature of the interest, must for ever preclude it from public representation.

The Author of a Tragedy, recently published under the same name, having pointed out some coincidences of expression between his Drama and mine, I beg to state, most explicitly, that previous to the publication of Anne Boleyn, I had never seen, either in MS. or print, any contemporary Poem on the same subject.

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Thy music, such as in the royal Chapel

Are scoff'd; the dainty limbs are all too proud

Thou 'rt wont to sing? Rude though mine ear, it loves T" endure the chastening sackcloth. Sin is still Thy music, brother.

MARK.

Dearest, yes, I'll bring

All these, and hymns forbidden there; there's one
Was taught me by a simple fisher-boy,
That sail'd the azure tide of that bright bay
That laves the walls of Naples: as he sung-
What time the midnight waves were starr'd with barks,
Each with its single glow-worm lamp, that tipt
The waters round with rippling lines of light-
You would have thought Heaven's queen had strew'd
around

Silence, like that among the stars, when pause
The Angels in ecstatic adoration.

MAGDALENE.

Speak on, speak on!-Were it a stranger's voice That thus discoursed, I could lose days in listening; But thine

MARK.

O! Magdalene, thou know'st not here
In our chill, damp, and heavy atmosphere,
The power, might, magic, mystery of sweet sounds!
Oh! on some rock to sit, the twilight winds
Breathing all odour by-at intervals

To hear the hymnings of some virgin choir,
With pauses musical as music's self,

Come swelling up from deep and unseen distance:

Or under some vast dome, like Heaven's blue cope,
All full and living with the liquid deluge
Of harmony, till pillars, walls, and aisles,
The altar paintings and cold images,
Catch life and motion, and the weight of feeling
Lies like a load upon the breathless bosom !
But speaking thus, hours will seem minutes, sister,
And

MAGDALENE.

Thou wouldst say farewell. Yet ere we part I long to speak one word-I dare not say Of counsel-but the love, whose only study Is one heart's book, gains deeper knowledge, Mark, Of its dark leaves, than schools can teach, or man Learn from his fellow men.

MARK.

Sage monitress!

MAGDALENE.

Oh! Mark, Mark-in one cradle were we laid, Our souls were born together, bred together; In all thy thoughts, emotions, my fond love Anticipated thine own consciousness;

I felt them, ere thyself knew thine own feelings: And never yet impetuous wish was born

In that warm heart, but, till fulfilment crown'd it, Thou wert its slave-its bounden, fetter'd slave. Oh! watch thyself, mistrust, fear

MARK.

What?

MAGDALENE.

Why all things.In that louse Court, they say, each hard observance, Fast, penance, all the rites of holy Church,

Contagious: like herself are those that wait On that heretical and wicked Queen.

MARK.

The wicked Queen!-oh! sister, dearest sister,
For the first time I'd see thy pure cheek burn
With penitent tears; go kneel, and ask Heaven's
pardon-

Scourge thy misjudging heart-the wicked Queen!
Heaven's living miracle of all its graces!
There's not a breathing being in her presence
But watches the least motion of a look,
Th' unutter'd intimation of desire,
And lives upon the hope of doing service,
That done, is like the joy blest Angels feel
In minist'ring to prayers of holiest Saints.
Authority she wears as 't were her birthright;
And when our rooted knees would grow to earth
In adoration, reassuring gaiety

Makes the soul smile at its own fears.

MAGDALENE.

But, Mark,

Believes she as the Church believes?

MARK.

I know not

What she believes-I see but what she does.
Loose Court, and shameless Queen!-her audience
Is of the wretched, destitute, forlorn:
The usher to that Court is Beggary,

And Want the chamberlain; her flatterers, those
Whose eloquence is full and bursting hearts;
Her parasites, wan troops of starving men
Round the full furnish'd board-pale dowerless
maids-

Nuns, like thyself, cast forth from their chaste cloisters
To meet the bitter usage of the world;
While holiest men are ever in her presence:
Nor can their lavish charity exhaust
The treasures of her goodness.

MAGDALENE.

Oh! Mark, Mark

My only joy on earth-that, if my soul
E'er dream'd of Heaven, wert evermore a part,
Th' intelligible part of its full bliss,
Thou art not warp'd by pride of new opinion?

MARK.

Is 't new t'adore the mingled consummation Of beauty, gentleness, and goodness?

MAGDALENE.

Cease!

For this, for hearing this, I must do penance-
Fast, weep, and pray; and, oh! beware, beware-
The holy Father comes, whose keen eye reads
The inmost soul; I've felt him pluck the thought,
I dared not speak, from its dark sanctuary

I' the heart, and cast it down before mine eyes
Till my soul shudder'd at its own corruption.
He sees us not-stand back-'t were ill t' intrude
Upon his saintly privacy, whose soul
Haply is prostrate at Our Lady's feet,
In our behalf, his poor unworthy flock.

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They cross'd me, and I needs must follow-to the
Abbey;

Tinsult their fathers' graves; to mock the Saints
That from the high empurpled windows glare
On the proud worshippers, whose secret hearts
Disdain their intercession; scarce a lamb
Burnt on the prayerless shrines, and here and there
Some wan sad vot'ress, in Our Lady's chapel,
Listening in vain for the full anthem, told
Her beads, and shrunk from her own lonely voice.
But when I saw the Arch-heretic enrobed
In the cope and pall of mitred Canterbury,
Lift the dread Host with misbelieving hands,
And heard another's voice profane read out,
In their own dissonant and barbarous tongue,
The living word of God, the choking wrath
Convulsed my throat, and hurrying forth I sought
A secret and unechoing place, t' unload
My burthen'd heart!

ANGELO.

Youth, thou hast a soul,

For which thy spiritual guide must answer,
As for a Monarch's; in her care, the Church
That guards the loftiest, ne'er o'erlooks the meanest.
Thou 'rt new about the Court, and our good Queen,
With gracious affability, will sit

Listening to thy sweet languaged lute; thou 'rt there
In high esteem.

MARK.

Her Highness hath been pleased To hear me more than once; but word of praise From her had been a treasure, that my memory Had laid in store, for my whole life to brood on. ANGELO (aside).

So warm!I had forgot thy station, youth;
But with the great we rank far less by birth
Than estimation; and the power of ministering
To their delight becomes nobility.

MARK.

What?-says your wisdom so?

ANGELO.

Good youth, I charge thee, Cherish that modesty that well becomes thee; But yet if Fame belie thee not, thy powers May bind high-scoped Advancement to thy serviceThou mayst compete ere long with-which affects Her Majesty most of her servants?

MARK.

Each

'Twas the first time-the last Partakes alike of that all-winning easeThat holy Indignation hath o'erleap'd Wisdom's strong barriers-the ill-govern'd features Play'd traitor to the close-wrapt heart.

But thou

That art a part of God's dread majesty,
In whose dusk robe his own disastrous purposes
'Th' Almighty veils, twin-born with Destiny,
Inexorable Secrecy! come, cowl

This soul in deep impervious blackness!-Grant
I may deny myself the pride and fame
Of bringing back this loose apostate land
To the true Faith. Be all mine agency
Secret as are the springs of living fire

In the world's centre; bury deep my name,
That mortal eye ne'er read it, till emblazed
Amid the roll of Christ's great Saints and Martyrs
It shake away the oblivious gloom of ages,

ANGELO, MARK, MAGDALENE.

ANGELO.

Ye may approach-the youth, or I mistake,
Of whom Saavedra wrote, whose dulcet voice
And skilful handling the sweet lute were famed
Through Italy-most fair report, young man,
Hath been thy harbinger.

MARK.

Good reverend father. That men so wise, whose words are treasured counsels To mightiest Kings, should deign to note a name Like mine, moves wonder.

Not the proud condescension, which disdains Most manifestly when it stoops the lowestAll are her slaves, seeming almost her equals: She's loved

ANGELO.

Enough!-Report speaks bounteously Of Henry Norreys: he and William Brereton And Francis Weston, are about her still

MARK.

Not one, I believe, would deem his life Ill barter'd for her service

ANGELO.

And Lord Rochford.

Her noble brother-as a Poet, youth,

His art is kindred to thine own, its rival

In making the mute air we breathe an element Of purest intellectual joy-the Queen

To her close privacy admits.

MARK.

I've heard

She takes delight beyond all words to hear
Our harsher English tongue, by his smooth skill,
And noble Surrey's, and learn'd Wyatt's, flow
Melodious, as the honey-lipp'd Italian

ANGELO.

"Tis well. Thy orphan'd youth, I learn, Mark Smeaton
Wants that imperious curb Heaven delegates
To parents' hands; mine order, rank, and station
Give to my councils th' impress of command:

I charge thee then, by thine own soul-beware

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Why sate I down but yesterday, 'mid pomps And luxuries that might have fed a village? Go coin those wines, barter for homelier cates Those candied superfluities.

ALMONER.

It stands not

With the King's honour thus to mulet and limit Your Highness' state.

QUEEN.

Still less, Sir, to contract

And weigh with base frugality the alms
His Grace bestows through me, his humble agent.
The Bounty of the King, Heaven's delegate,
Should be as Heaven's: the Sun, that through the
grate

Of some barr'd dungeon lights the pallid cheek
Of the poor prisoner, is a gracious gift;

But that which argues the great God of Nature
Is the rich prodigality of light,

That kindles the wide universal sky

And gladdens worlds. But to descend to truths
Of homelier prudence. "Tis not well to feast
A lazy herd of sleek unlabouring drones,
Most true, Sir; but his Majesty hath pleased
To take some certain Convents and rich Abbeys
Into his royal hands; they, that were bred
To sun themselves in careless indolence,
Are cast abroad to buffet the hard world

And mercy sin beyond Heaven's grace-thinkst thou For bare subsistence; even the once mitred Lords To be a Queen, and dare to be a woman

Play fool upon thy dizzy precipice,

Of manors, benefices, lands, and palaces, Ill husbanding their limited maintenance,

Nor smile, nor word, nor look, nor thought but's noted Are brought to beggary and painful want:

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I thought a throne would give the power of blessing
Illimitable-to speak, were to make glad

All hearts. Alas! the higher we aspire,
The wider spreads beneath us the dark scene
Of human wretchedness, which even to lighten
Wants not Heaven's goodness only, but Heaven s
wisdom,

While easy mischief waits on meanest minds.

The idiot with a wanton brand may fire
Th' imperial city, a base beggar's brood
Infect a paradise with pestilence,

While deep-laid schemes of princeliest goodness end
In wider evil, and thrice heavier ruin.
Ye smile to hear these solemn arguments
Upon these laughter-loving lips.

LADY ROCHFORD.

Your Highness Is ever thus, or gladdening with your mirth Or teaching with your wisdom.

QUEEN.

Lady Rochford,

When thou dost serve ourself, not our poor neighbours. Might I not add that thou art ever flattering?

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