ANNE BOLEYN.
Lost! lost! lost!The famed and gracious Anne is no more,Her sceptre broken, now her power is o'er,Ye judges, who, to-day pronounced my doomWith solemn words that filled my soul with gloom.And Henry, king with deeds so just and and canny,Come thou, and tell me if this still be Anne.This sunken cheek, this tearful eye, this frameSo withered in its woe, cans't be the same?
My maidens, who, with skillful touch and care,Have looped with jewels these locks of silken hair,And smiled with pleasure at my face so fair,When through the mirror they saw it reflected there,Say, tell me if a likeness can be seenIn this poor wasted frame, to England's queen.Ah, Wolsey. Yes; thy fate was like to mine,I, too, did rise, but now, my lot is thine.