Anne Boleyn Poem by Eloise Alberta Bibb

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 doom
With solemn words that filled my soul with gloom.
And Henry, king with deeds so just and canny,
Come thou, and tell me if this still be Anne.
This sunken cheek, this tearful eye, this frame
So 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 seen
In 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.


At once arrayed in pomp, endowed with power,
Now, fickle fortune assigns to me the tower.
Will naught but blood e'er quench king Henry's thirst?
Naught but revenge with which his brain is curst?
Base villain! though thou decked in robes of state,
Thy heart is like to Lucifer's in hate!
Thou dwell'st beneath a canopy of light
With soul in lust enshrouded, black as night,


And yet this man, so base, so weak, so vain,
Great heaven! this poor heart could love again.
Could kneel with 'raptured words and tearful prayer;
Bid him clasp me to his heart, and linger there.
Yes, he was loving, kind, and good to me,
Six years I knew naught but felicity,
And gratitude, like some emitted spark,
Awoke the fire within my woman's heart.


My babe, Elizabeth, he loved the child;
Oft have I seen his countenance grow mild
Whene'er in infant voice she lisped his name;
In tones like an Æolian harp it came.
But why this change! How turned his love to ire?
Whence comes this wrath like some outburst of fire?
False! false! O God! the light has dawned at last;
I know now why his tenderness has passed!


Ah! I can see why he thus thinks me vile,
He basks within another's 'witching smile;
'Tis Jane Seymour, my fair and gifted maid
Has made upon his heart this sudden raid.
O Father! and 'tis she will reign the queen,
When I on earth, no more will e'er be seen.
She'll wear this crown I prize more than my life,
She holds his heart, 'tis she he'll make his wife.


O heaven! for an arm of Samson's strength,
That I might burst these doors of wondrous length,
And flee this tower; sweet freedom breathe again, -
Ah! I would seek this treasured one, - and then
This dagger thrust into her siren heart,
And see her writhe in pain from its keen smart.
Then could I smile, and know forevermore,
Her fascinations and her smiles were o'er!


Delusion vain! these thoughts but poison peace,
And rack the soul with storms that never cease.
Lost! lost! lost! I've played the game of chance, and lost.
And O ye destinies! what it has cost
To brain, and heart, and soul! and now I die,
Scorned, and derided, and loathed by every eye.
O thou, who lov'st the paths of same and power,
Know thou the darkness of this dreadful hour
Will yet be thine! Oh, quench this fearful thirst,
Else thy life, too, with madness will be curst.
Thou'lt live to know thy hopes and dreams are o'er,
And thou wilt fall, as I, to rise no more.