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.

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."

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