But now o'erwhelmed in sad amaze
She hears a far-off rising sound;
The hills and booming seas resound;
The plaintive wind her requiem plays—
October, queen of autumn days.
THE PLAY IS O'ER
The play is o'er! Great Wolsey's dead—
That scarlet power once England's dread;
And lustful Henry's brutal sin
Hath slain the noble Catharine,—
More stainless wife was never wed.
Anne Boleyn shares the royal bed
And wears upon her graceless head
The good queen's crown without chagrin—
The play is o'er!
A few brief months have swiftly sped,
The faithless consort's blood is shed.
What means the mighty noise within?
The trumpet's blare, the cymbal's din?
Jane Seymour's to the altar led,—
The play is o'er!