Anne Boleyn

I weep while gazing on thy modest face,
Thou pictured history of woman's love!
Joy spreads his burning pinions on thy cheek,
Shaming its whiteness; and thine eyes are full
Of conscious beauty, as they undulate.
Yet all thy beauty, poor, deluded girl!
Served but to light thy ruin. — Is there not,
Kind Heaven! some secret talisman of hearts,
Whereby to find a resting-place for love '!
Unhappy maiden! let thy story teach
The beautiful and young, that while their path
Softens with roses, — danger may be there;
That Love may watch the bubbles of the stream,
But never trust his image on the wave.