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, That turn'd my tears to honey dew: here, all, The ice of death is round my heart, there long Ye give him, thou that bear'st the Avenger's name, Then up her fair round arm she raised, and wrapt "Lady, we judge by the adamantine law, That lives within the eternal soul of man, That God-enacted charter, Blood for blood."" 28 Ye will not show unto a woman's eyes Discoursed, thy voice was broken, tender, soft, Stately as lily on a sunshine bank, Shaken from its curl'd leaves the o'ercharging dew, And that was all. But she-" Proud-hearted Men, To shame ye." She endured the flashing stroke "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. 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 Silence, like that among the stars, when pause 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 To hear the hymnings of some virgin choir, Come swelling up from deep and unseen distance: Or under some vast dome, like Heaven's blue cope, 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, Scourge thy misjudging heart-the wicked Queen! 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. And Want the chamberlain; her flatterers, those Nuns, like thyself, cast forth from their chaste cloisters MAGDALENE. Oh! Mark, Mark My only joy on earth-that, if my soul 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- I' the heart, and cast it down before mine eyes They cross'd me, and I needs must follow-to the Tinsult their fathers' graves; to mock the Saints ANGELO. Youth, thou hast a soul, For which thy spiritual guide must answer, Listening to thy sweet languaged lute; thou 'rt there 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; 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, This soul in deep impervious blackness!-Grant In the world's centre; bury deep my name, ANGELO, MARK, MAGDALENE. ANGELO. Ye may approach-the youth, or I mistake, 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 ANGELO. "Tis well. Thy orphan'd youth, I learn, Mark Smeaton I charge thee then, by thine own soul-beware 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 Of some barr'd dungeon lights the pallid cheek But that which argues the great God of Nature That kindles the wide universal sky And gladdens worlds. But to descend to truths 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: I thought a throne would give the power of blessing All hearts. Alas! the higher we aspire, While easy mischief waits on meanest minds. The idiot with a wanton brand may fire While deep-laid schemes of princeliest goodness end 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? |