Death of Wolsey

The tint of Autumn's closing day, On Leicester-Abbey shone, And pensively that fading ray Gleam'd o'er the fretted stone; While slowly 'neath its portal arch The mitred Abbot came, With crosier leading on the march Of all his ghostly train.

Each monk in sable stole appear'd, With studious care array'd, For tramp of coursers' feet was heard To echo through the glade. A martial band, with measured tread, Approach'd that lone abode, And sad and silent at their head The prelate Wolsey rode.

He, at whose nod the noble blood Of *Buckingham was shed, That princely peer, who boldly stood Next to the crowned head; He, who with arrogance unblamed St. Peter's chair had eyed, Alike for wealth and learning famed, For policy and pride. But where the silver cross, and plume? The costly velvet pall? The gaudy train to cry, "make room For my lord cardinal!" Why doth he, with dejected air, Thus bend on earth his eye? And to the Abbot's greeting fair, Where is the prompt reply?

For faintly was he heard to say With voice of faultering sound, "I come these weary bones to lay Within your hallow'd ground." His sadness damp'd their welcome free, With folded arms they stood, A broken-hearted man was he, Bereft of earthly good.

Then softly to his guarded cell The holy vesper stole, But who the fatal strife may tell Which rack'd that mighty soul? Ambition's rankling goad was there To break the dream of rest, And death came on with dark despair To blanch the haughty breast.

What gleam'd upon his glazing sight? His proud cathedral-towers? Or York-house, rich with golden light? Or Richmond's royal bowers? Did visions of perverted powers Wake Penitence to pray With streaming eyes o'er sinful hours? Spirit of Mercy, say!

Suffolk and Norfolk, fiery peers, Their rival's exit blest, And stern Northumberland with tears His vengeful joy exprest. But bluff king Hal with vacant eye Gazed long on Ann Boleyne, And in a deep and sorrowing sigh Forgot his spoused queen.

Yet light as air that monarch's wo, And lighter still his love, And ah! how false his holiest vow The scaffold oft did prove.— How vain that king who proudly swerves From paths by wisdom trod, But vainer still, the man who serves His king before his God.