The question of the guilt or innocence of Anne Boleyn is a tempting one, in connection with Henry VIII.'s history; but we have not now the space that is necessary to treat it justly. We may take it up another time, and follow Mr. Froude through his ingenious attempts to show that Anne must have been guilty of incest and adultery, or else--dreadful alternative!--we must come to the conclusion that Henry VIII. was not the just man made perfect on earth. * * * * * WHY THEIR CREEDS DIFFERED. Bedded in stone, a toad lived well, Cold and content as toad could be; As safe from harm as monk in cell, Almost as safe from good was he And "What is life?" he said, and dozed; Then, waking, "Life is rest," quoth he: "Each creature God in stone hath closed, That each may have tranquillity. "And God Himself lies coiled in stone, Nor wakes nor moves to any call; Each lives unto himself alone, And cold and night envelop all." He said, and slept. With curious ear Close to the stone, a serpent lay. "'T is false," he hissed with crafty sneer, "For well I know God wakes alway. "And what is life but wakefulness, To glide through snares, alert and wise,-- With plans too deep for neighbors' guess, And haunts too close for neighbors' eyes? "For all the earth is thronged with foes, And dark with fraud, and set with toils: Each lies in wait, on each to close, And God is bribed with share of spoils." High in the boughs a small bird sang, And marvelled such a creed should be. "How strange and false!" his comment rang; "For well I know that life is glee. "For all the plain is flushed with bloom, And all the wood with music rings, And in the air is scarcely room To wave our myriad flashing wings. "And God, amid His angels high, Spreads over all in brooding joy; On great wings borne, entranced they lie, And all is bliss without alloy." "Ah, careless birdling, say'st thou so?" Thus mused a man, the trees among: "Thy creed is wrong; for well I know That life must not be spent in song. "For what is life, but toil of brain, And toil of hand, and strife of will,-- To dig and forge, with loss and pain, The truth from lies, the good from ill,-- "And ever out of self to rise Toward love and law and constancy? But with sweet love comes sacrifice, And with great law comes penalty. "And God, who asks a constant soul, His creatures tries both sore and long: Steep is the way, and far the goal, And time is small to waste in song." He sighed. From heaven an angel yearned: With equal love his glances fell Upon the man with soul upturned, Upon the toad within its cell. And, strange! upon that wondrous face Shone pure all natures, well allied: There subtlety was turned to grace, And slow content was glorified; And labor, love, and constancy Put off their dross and mortal guise, And with the look that is to be They looked from those immortal eyes.