The play is o'er! Great Wolsey's dead— That scarlet power once England's dread; And lustful Henry's brutal sin Hath slain the noble Catharine,— More stainless wife was never wed. Anne Boleyn shares the royal bed And wears upon her graceless head The good queen's crown without chagrin— The play is o'er! A few brief months have swiftly sped, The faithless consort's blood is shed. What means the mighty noise within? The trumpet's blare, the cymbal's din? Jane Seymour's to the altar led,— The play is o'er! [Pg 52] [Pg 52] A RONDEAU His heart was pure: he loved the child That dwelt among untrodden ways
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