ANNE BOLEYN.

SCENE.-A small Garden near Westminster.

MARK SMEATON, MAGDALENE SMEATON.

MAGDALENE.

OH welcome, welcome-though I scarcely hoped
That he who long hath dwelt in foreign climes,
And now comes wearing the proud garb of Courts,
Would waste the precious treasure of a thought
On poor forgotten sister Magdalene.

MARK.

Still the same humble tender Magdalene,

Who deems, that none can rate her modest worth
More high than her retiring self. Sweet sister,
I would not wound thy heaven-devoted ears
With the unwonted sounds of worldly flattery
But in far distant climes, 'mid strangers' faces,
That night was sweetest when I dream'd of thee,
Our native garden here, our little world

Of common joys and sorrows.

MAGDALENE.

Dearest Mark,

The heart deems truth whate'er it wishes true.

And wilt thou now and then steal hither to me When thou'rt not call'd for at the Court? wilt bring Thy music, such as in the royal Chapel

Thou'rt wont to sing? Rude though my ear, it loves Thy music, brother.

MARK.

Dearest, yes, I'll bring

All these, and hymns forbidden there; there's one
Was taught me by a simple fisher boy,

That sail'd the azure tide of that bright bay

That laves the walls of Naples: as he

sung

What time the midnight waves were starr'd with barks,
Each with its single glowworm lamp, that tipt
The waters round with rippling lines of light-

You would have thought Heaven's queen had strew'd around

Silence, like that among the stars, when pause
The Angels in ecstatic adoration.

MAGDALENE.

Speak on, speak on!-Were it a stranger's voice
That thus discoursed, I could lose days in listening;
But thine.

MARK..

Oh! Magdalene, thou know'st not here

In our chill, damp, and heavy atmosphere,

The

power, might, magic, mystery of sweet sounds!

Oh! on some rock to sit, the twilight winds
Breathing all odour by—at intervals

To hear the hymnings of some virgin choir,
With pauses musical as music's self,

Come swelling up from deep and unseen distance:
Or under some vast dome, like Heaven's blue cope,
All full and living with the liquid deluge

Of harmony, till pillars, walls, and aisles,
The altar paintings and cold images,

Catch life and motion, and the weight of feeling
Lies like a load upon the breathless bosom !

But speaking thus, hours will seem minutes, sister,
And-

MAGDALENE.

Thou would'st say farewell.

Yet ere we part

I long to speak one word—I dare not say

Of counsel-but the love, whose only study

Is one heart's book, gains deeper knowledge, Mark,
Of its dark leaves, than schools can teach, or man
Learn from his fellow men.

MARK.

Sage monitress!

MAGDALENE.

Oh! Mark, Mark-in one cradle were we laid,
Our souls were born together, bred together;
In all thy thoughts, emotions, my fond love
Anticipated thine own consciousness;

I felt them, ere thyself knew thine own feelings:
And never yet impetuous wish was born

In that warm heart, but till fulfilment crown'd it
Thou wert its slave-its bounden, fetter'd slave.
Oh! watch thyself, mistrust, fear-

MARK.

What?

MAGDALENE.

Why all things.

In that loose Court, they say, each hard observance,
Fast, penance, all the rites of holy Church,
Are scoff'd; the dainty limbs are all too proud
T'endure the chastening sackcloth. Sin is still
Contagious like herself are those that wait
On that heretical and wicked Queen.

MARK.

The wicked Queen!-oh! sister, dearest sister,
For the first time I'd see thy pure cheek burn
With penitent tears; go kneel, and ask Heaven's pardon-
Scourge thy misjudging heart-the wicked Queen!

Heaven's living miracle of all its graces!

There's not a breathing being in her presence

But watches the least motion of a look,
Th' unutter'd intimation of desire,

And lives upon the hope of doing service,
That done, is like the joy blest Angels feel
In minist'ring to prayers of holiest Saints.
Authority she wears as 'twere her birthright;