44 ANNA BOLETN.

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 know How far a mother's grief transcends a martyr's woe.

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