XI.

ANNA BULLEN, an elegiac Ballad.

Now first printed.

IGH fhee fat in regal ftate,

H1

Lovelye Anna Englande's queene (Thoughtleffe that approaching fate, Coulde fo fhortelye change the scene).

Deckte in robes of royaltye,

Shee appear'de fome form divine;

Glorious in that forme to fee,

Beautye's throne and virtue's fhrine.

Lillyes fo tranfcendent fayre,

Roles of the Tyrian dye,

Coulde not with her hande compare,
Coulde not with her blushes vie,

Rounde her knightes and nobles bow'de,
Proude to waite befyde her throne--
Anna milde, as Henrye proude,

Smyl'd on all, and frown'de on none.

Pale

Palefac'de miferye, griefe and woe,

To her feete did oft repayre; Bounteous gifts fhe did beftowe, Generous queene as good as fayre.

Pitye form'de her fofte and milde,
Apt to weepe at woe fevere;
Mercye claim'de her for her chylde,
And for proofe produc'd the teare.

Manye a wretche, with joy fulle breathe,
Sav'de from wante, her love proclayme;
Manye a mifcreante, fnatch'de from deathe,
Gratefulle bleffe her bounteous name.

Superftition long had feign'de,

Longe had rear'd her haggard heade; When she hearde that Anna reign'de, Scar'de, the trembled, curs'd, and fledde.

Calumnye, with artful leere,

Strove to tainte her mayden fame; Pryde was pleas'd the tale to heare,

Envye gladlye woulde proclayme.

But to quelle that darke furmize,
Truthe her faithfulle glaffe apply'd;

Truthe the envyous tale denyes,
Pryde was humble'd-scandall dyed.

But

But pale envye, rankling fore,

Came difguis'de in friendefhip's name;

Malice in her breaste the bore,

Bente to bringe this queene to fhame.

Hapleffe Rochford, thee their preye
Thou with others art decreede-
But fweete Anna, more than they,
Was the lambe deftin'd to bleede.

Sweete innocence, and fhalle thy charmes,
And must thy virtues pleade in vaine ?
Torne from her fmiling infante's armes,
Muft our lovelye queene be flayne?

Yes, hapless Anna! thou must falle:
'Gainfte fuch tyrantes what defence?
Charmes nor virtues can avail,

Nor thy infante's eloquence.

-Thou that waft a friende to all,

Haft noe friende to pleade for thee;

Friendleffe (tho an empreffe) falle,
Lambe deftyn'de for butcherye.

Harke yon diftante hollowe groane

Harke yon woefraughtę murmurs faynte→→ Loe, the hellishe deede is done-

Farewelle, Anna, queene, and faynte!

Be

Be the deede for ever mourn'de,
Britain, lo! thy deepest stayne!
Loveliefte queene, that thee adorn'de,
Thy hard-hearted kinge hath flayne.

Pale that face whose beautye charm'de,
Of whofe fmyles a kyng was proude !
Pale thofe handes a fceptre arm'de,→→→
Wrapped in a drearye shroude!

Mangled is that neck and breafte,
That e'en envye fair allow'd;
Where all graces were exprefs'd.
Wrapped in a drearye shroud!

Charmes, whofe luftre brighte hath fhone,
Nowe, alas! fhalle fhyne no more ;
Tranfient charmes-for ever flow'ne-
Pompe and pow're-for ever o'er.

Nowe no more shall those brighte ́eyes
Weepe to heare the tale of griefe;
Nor, when pale-fac'd forrow cryes,
Shalle thofe handes extende reliefe.

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But, fweete queene, thou ftille fhalt reigne

On a brighter throne above,

Where no fiend thy peace fhall ftayne,

Nor enfnare thy monarch's love.

E'en

E'en on earthe thy fame fhall bloome
Brighter for th' oppofing shade;
And thy name, in tymes to come,
Pure and virtuous be difplay'de.

And thy grave a hallow'd shrine,
Tho' but turfe the fpot adorne :
There fhalle manye a forme divine,
Guarde thy ashes, eve and morne.

Pietye (neglected fayre !)

Oft with griefe shall wander neare; And, in pangs of fad defpaire,

On the greene turfe drop a teare.

There shall come the numerous thronge
Of the wretched thou❜st reliev'd,

Tale to telle, as fweete as longe,

Of the goode workes thou'ft atchiev'de.

Ever fhall thy foes be fcorn'd,

And, with hearte-felte teares and fighes,
Shall thy hapless fate be mourn'de-
For with thee religion dies,

Tyrante Henrye, bloodye kyng,
Darke thy future yeares fhall rolle :
Confcience, with her venom'd yng,
Longe fhall lash thy guiltye foule.

VOL. IV.

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