106 LADY JANE GREY.
One kiss, such as the peasant-mother gives When on its evening bed her child she lays, Had dearer been to thee than all their courtly phrase.
The tower ! the tower ! thou bright-hair 'd beauteous one !
There, where the captive's breath Hath sigh'd itself in bitterness away, Where iron nerves have withered one by one, And the sick eye, shut from the glorious sun, Grop'd mid those chilling walls till idiocy
Made life like death, There must thy resting be ?
Not long ! Not long ! What savage band
'Neath thy grated window bears The headless form, the lifeless hand Of him, the magic of whose love could charm away thy
cares ?
Guildford ! thy husband ! yet the gushing tear Scarce flows to mourn his fate severe, Thy pious thought doth rise To those unclouded skies, Where he, amid the angel train, Doth for thy coming wait, to part no more again.
The scaffold ! Must it be ! Stern England's queen Hast thou such doom decreed ?
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