But Love entirely had my soul possess❜d.
How oft I wish'd my kinder destiny
Had sunk the Queen in some obscure degree;
While, crown'd by rural maids with painted flowers,
I rang'd the fields, and slept in verdant bowers;
Belov'd of some young swain, with Brandon's face,
His voice, his gesture, and his blooming grace,
In all but birth and state resembling thee!
Then unmolested we had liv'd, and free
From all the curst restraints which greatness brings; While grots, the meads, the shades, and purling springs,
The flowery valley, and the gloomy grove,
Had heard of no superior name to Love.
Such scenes of this inglorious life I drew,
And half believ'd the charming fiction true,
Till real ills dissolv'd the pleasing dreams,
The groves and vallies fled, the lawns and silver
The gay fantastic-paradise I mourn'd;
While courts and factions, crowns and cares, return'd.
With sighs I still recall the fatal day,
When no pretence could gain a longer stay.
The lovely Queen my parting sorrow saw,
Nor Henry's presence kept my grief in awe.
No rules of decent custom could control,
Or hide the wide disorder of my soul,
When shipp'd for France before the dancing wind
The navy fled and left my hopes behind.
With weeping eyes I still survey'd the strand,
Where on a rising cliff I saw thee stand;
Nor once from thence my stedfast sight withdrew,
Till the lov'd object was no more in view.
"Farewell, I cry'd, dear charming Youth! with thee
Each chearful prospect vanishes from me."
Loud shouts and triumphs on the Gallic coast
Salute me; but the noisy zeal was lost.
Nor shouts nor triumphs drew my least regard,
Thy parting sighs, methought, were all I heard.
But now at Albeville by Louis met,
I strove the thoughts of Suffolk to forget;
For here my faith was to my monarch vow'd,
And solemn rites my passion disallow'd:
However pure my former flames had been,
Unblemish'd honor made them now a sin.
But scarce my virtue had the conquest gain'd,
And every wild forbidden wish restrain'd;
When at St. Dennis, with imperial state
Invested, on the Gallic throne I sate;
The day with noble tournaments was grac'd,
Your name amongst the British champions plac'd.
Invited by a guilty thirst of fame,
Without regard to my repose, you came.
The lists I saw thee entering with surprize,
And felt the darting glances of thine eyes.
"Ye sacred Powers, I cry'd, that rule above! Defend my breast from this perfidious love
Ye holy Lamps' before whose aweful lights
I gave my hand; and ye religious rites!
Assist me now; nor let a thought unchaste,
Or guilty wish, my plighted honor blast!"
While passion, struggling with my pious fears,
Forc'd from my eyes involuntary tears.
Some tender blossom thus, with leaves enlarg'd,
Declines its head, with midnight dew o'ercharg'd:
The passing breezes shake the gentle flower,
And scatter all around a pearly shower.
From this distracting hour I shunn'd thy sight,
And gain'd the conquest by a prudent flight.
But human turns, and sovereign destiny,
Have set me now from those engagements free.
The stars, propitious to my virgin love,
My first desires and early vows approve ;
While busy politicians urge in vain,
That public reasons should my choice restrain;
That none but York's or Lancaster's high race,
Or great Plantagenet's, I ought to grace!
Nor Suffolk wants a long illustrious line,
And worth that shall in future records shine.
They own'd thy valor when thy conquering lance
Carry'd the prize from all the youth of France.
Thy merit Henry's constant favor shows,
And Envy only can my choice oppose.
Thy noble presence, wit, and fine address,
The British and the Gallic court confess.
Alançon's shape, and Vendôme's sparkling eye,
Count Paul's gay mien, and Bourbon's majesty,
No longer are admir'd, when thou art by.
There nothing wants to justify my flame,
The statesmen grant, but a poor empty name.
And what's the gaudy title of a King?
What solid bliss can royal grandeur bring?
When thou art absent, what's the court to me,
But tiresome state, and dull formality?
This toy a crown I would resign, to prove
The peaceful joys of innocence and love.
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN IN THE TOWER, A FEW DAYS BEFORE THEY SUFFERED.
Quis Regni posthac confidet viribus? aut quem
Gloria decipiet Sceptri, Soliive superbi
Lubrica Majestas ?------
FROM these dread walls, this melancholy Tow'r,
Doom'd the sad victim of relentless Pow'r,
Where Ruin sits in gloomy pomp array'd,
And circling horrors spread their mournful shade, I send the tribute of a short'ning life,
The last memorial of a faithful Wife.
For ev'ry hope on this side Heav'n is fled,
And Death's pale banner waves around my head.
It yet perchance may cheer my Lord to know
That SUFFOLK's Daughter sinks not with her woe:
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