Supreme in grief, her eye confus'd with woe, Such was the pomp when Gilead's virgin band, Of Siloe's brook, a mournful fabbath kept. By the refplendent cross with thistles twin'd, 'Tis Mary's guardian Genius loft in woe: • Ah! fay, what deepest wrongs have thus combin'd • To heave with restless fighs thy breast of snow! O ftay, ye Dryads, nor unfinish'd fly • Your folemn rites; here comes no foot prophane: The Mufes' fon, and hallow'd is his eye, Implores your ftay, implores to join the strain! • See, from her cheek the glowing life-blush flies; Refound the folemn dirge,' the nymphs reply, And Melancholy wake her melting pow'r : For Art has triumph'd; Art, that never stood And o'er her fame has breath'd it's blighting dew. • But But come, ye nymphs; ye woodland fpirits, come; • And with funereal flow'rs your treffes braid: • While in this hallow'd grove we raise the tomb, • And confecrate the fong to Mary's shade. O fing what fmiles her youthful morning wore! • Her's ev'ry charm, and ev'ry loveliest grace: • When Nature's happieft touch could add no more, • Heaven lent an angel's beauty to her face. O! whether by the mofs-grown bushy dell, Where from the oak depends the misletoe, • Where creeping ivy fhades the Druid's cell, • Where from the rock the gurgling waters flow; Or whether sportive o'er the cowflip beds, You thro' the fairy dales of Teviot glide; • Or brush the primrose banks, while Cynthia sheds Her filv'ry light o'er Efk's translucent tide: Hither, ye gentle guardians of the fair, By Virtue's tears, by weeping Beauty, come; And come, ye fleet magicians of the air!' • Your airy tints of baleful hue prepare, And thro' this grove bid Mary's fortunes glide: And let the fong, with folemn harping join'd, And wailing notes, unfold the tale of woe!' She spoke; and, waking thro' the breathing wind, The fong began: How bright her early morn! • What lafting joys her fmiling fate portends! To wield the awful British fceptres born, And Gaul's young heir her bridal-bed afcends. See, round her bed, light-floating on the air, The little Loves their purple wings display; < When fudden, shrieking at the dismal glare • Of funeral torches, far they speed away. Far with the Loves each blissful omen speeds; And struggling factions shake her native throne. No more a goddefs in the fwimming dance, May'ft thou, O queen, thy lovely form display'; For the cold north the trembling fails are spread: While from thy weeping eyes fair Gallia fled, The unhappy Mary in her infancy was fent to France, to the care of her mother's family, the Houfe of Guife. The French court was at that time the gayeft and most gallant of Europe. H re the Princess of Scotland was educated, with all the diftinctions due to her high rank; and, as foon as years would allow, fhe was married to the Dauphin, afterwards Francis II. On the death of this monarch, which closed a short reign, the politicks of the House of Guife required the return of the young queen to Scotlard. She left France with tears and the utmost reluctance; and, on her landing in her native kingdom, the different appearance of the country awakened all her regret, and affected her with a melancholy which feemed to forebode her future misfortunes. A nation A nation ftern and ftubborn to command, And now convuls'd with Faction's fierceft rage, And asks a bridle from thy tender age." As weeping thus they fung, the omens rofe, Her native fhore receives the mournful queen; The house of Holy Rood, in fullen ftate, Bleak in the shade of rude pil'd rocks appears; Cold on the mountain's fide, the type of Fate, It's fhatter'd walls a Romifh chapel rears. No nodding grove here waves the fhelt'ring bough; Beneath the gloomy clouds of rolling smoke, Looks fcornful down, and fix'd defiance lours *. Domestick blifs, that dear, that fov'reign joy, *Thefe circumftances, descriptive of the environs of Holy Rood House, are local. Yet, however dreary the unimproved November view may appear, the connoiffeur in gardening will perceive that plantation, and the other efforts of art, could easily convert the profpect into an agreeable and most romantick fummer landscape. No No more by moon-shine to the nuptial bow'r Her Francis comes, by Love's foft fetters led; Far other spouse now wakes her midnight hour*, Enrag'd, and reeking from the harlot's bed. Ah, draw the veil !' fhrill trembles thro' the air; The bridal torch her evil angel wav'd; Far from the couch offended Prudence fled : The hinds are feen in arms, and glitt'ring spears, And red with flaughter lies the harvest field. From Borthwick field, deferted and forlorn, * Lord Darnly; the handsomest man of his age, but a worthless debauchee of no abilities. Her marriage with the Earl of Bothwell; an unprincipled politician of great addrefs. When she was brought prifoner through the streets of Edinburgh, she suffered almost every indignity which an enraged mob could offer. Her person was bedaubed with mire, and her ear infulted with every term of vulgar abuse. Even Buchanan, when he relates these circumftances, feems to drop a tear over them. Again |