"I oft have thought the watchful eye of God Upon this place ne'er rested; or that hell Had raised so black a smoke of densest sin That the All-Beautiful, appalled, shrunk back From its fierce ugliness. I tell you, friend, When the great treason, which shall surely come To burst in shards law-bound society, Gives the first shudder, ere it grinds to dust Thrones, ranks, and fortunes, and most cunning law-- When the great temple of our social state Staggers and throbs, and totters back to chaos-- Let men look here, here in this fiery mass Of aged crime and primal ignorance, For the hot heart of all the mystery!-- Here, on this howling sea, let fall the scourge, Or pour the oil of mercy!
_Rochford._ Pour the oil-- In God's name, pour the blessed oil! The scourge, Bloody and fierce, has fallen for ages past Upon the foreward crests within its reach; Yet made no more impression on the mass Than Persia's whips upon the Hellespont!"
Wyatt's soliloquy on beholding Queen Anne led forth to execution is full of a rare and subtle beauty, both of thought and expression:
"O Anne, Anne! The world may banish all regard for thee, Mewing thy fame in frigid chronicles, But every memory that haunts my mind Shall cluster round thee still. _I'll hide thy name Under the coverture of even lines, I'll hint it darkly in familiar songs_, I'll mix each melancholy thought of thee Through all my numbers: _so that heedless men Shall hold my love for thee within their hearts, Not knowing of the treasure_."
The last scene, preceding the death of Anne Boleyn, is simple and almost homely in its entire want of poetic imagery; yet nothing could be more profoundly touching, and--in the highest sense of the word--tragic. The same tears which blur for us the lines of Browning's _Blot on the 'Scutcheon_, and the last words of Shelley's _Beatrice Cenci_, suffuse our eyes at this parting address of Anne Boleyn to her maidens, beside her on the scaffold:
"And ye, my damsels, Who whilst I lived did ever show yourselves So diligent in service, and are now To be here present in my latest hour Of mortal agony--as in good times Ye were most trustworthy, even so in this, My miserable death, ye leave me not. As a poor recompense for your rich love, I pray you to take comfort for my loss-- And yet forget me not. To the king's grace, And to the happier one whom you may serve In place of me, be faithful as to me. Learn from this scene, the triumph of my fate, To hold your honors far above your lives. When you are praying to the martyred Christ, Remember me who, as my weakness could, Faltered afar behind His shining steps, And died for truth, forgiving all mankind. The Lord have pity on my helpless soul!"