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X. A PORTRAIT OF ANNE BOLEYN.

Ah, silver-tissued phantom lithe as hind
Skimming dark glades! Ah, white as moon that dips
In storm-cloud black its crescent's glimmering tips!
Ah, blithesome foot, swifter than wave or wind!

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Were those the mocking eyes whose fiat signed
Honour's death-warrant? Those the laughing lips
That o'er a realm's Religion breathed eclipse;
A King, once kingly, changed to false and blind?
Salomè new! was this the babe that played
With her own shadow 'mid the founts and flowers?
Death-sentenced Queen! was this the girl that prayed
Before our Lady's shrine, unmoved for hours?
I judge not her. The night before her death
She prayed her childhood's prayers—with tranquil breath.