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Supreme in grief, her eye confus'd with woe,
Appears the lady of th' aërial train; Tall as the sylvan goddess of the bow,
And fair as she who wept Adonis slain.
Such was the pomp when Gilead's virgin band,
Wand'ring by Judah's flow'ry mountains, wept ; And with fair Iphis, by the hallow'd strand
Of Siloe's brook, a mournful fabbath kept.
By the resplendent 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 refless fighs thy breast of snow!
• O stay, ye Dryads, nor unfinish'd fly
• Your solemn rites ; here comes no foot prophane : · The Muses' fon, and hallow'd is his eye,
Implores your stay, implores to join the strain!
• See, from her cheek the glowing life-blash flies ;
• Alas, what faultering sounds of 'woe be these! • Ye nymphs, who fondly watch her languid eyes,
• O say, what musick will her soul appease!
• Resound the folemn dirge,' the nymphs reply,
• And let the turtles moan in Mary's Bow'r; · Let Grief indulge her grand sublimity;
• And Melancholy wake her melting pow'r :
• For Art has triumph'd ; Art, that never stood
« On Honour's fide, or gen'rous transport knew, • Has dy'd it's haggard hands in Mary's blood,
« And o'er her fame has breath'd it's blighting dew.
• But come, ye nymphs; ye woodland spirits, come;
• And with funereal flow'rs your tresses braid: • While in this hallow'd grove we raise the tomb,
• And consecrate the fong to Mary's shade.
• O fing what smiles her youthful morning wore !
• Her's ev'ry charm, and ev'ry loveliest grace : • When Nature's happiest touch could add no more,
• Heaven lent an angel's beauty to her face,
• O! whether by the moss-grown bushy dell,
"Where from the oak depends the misletoe, • Where creeping ivy shades the Druid's cell,
" Where from the rock the gurgling waters flow;
« Or whether sportive o'er the cowslip beds,
• You thro' the fairy dales of Teviot glide; • Or brush the primrose banks, while Cynthia Aheds
. Her fily'ry light o'er Erk's translucent tide:
• Hither, ye gentle guardians of the fair,
• By Virtue's tears, by weeping Beauty, come ; • Unbind the festive robes, unbind the hair,
• And wave the cypress bough at Mary's tomb.
• And come, ye fleet magicians of the air!'
(The mournful lady of the chorus cry'd ;) • Your airy tints of baleful hue prepare,
• And thro’ this grove bid Mary's fortunes glide:
• And let the song, with folemn harping join’d,
• And wailing notes, unfold the tale of woe!' She spoke ; and, waking thro' the breathing wind,
From lyres unseen the solemn harpings flow.
The song began : How bright her early morn!
• What lasting joys her smiling fate portends ! • To wield the awful British sceptres born,
And Gaul's young heir her bridal-bed ascends.
? See, round her bed, light-floating on the air,
• The little Loves their purple wings display ; . When sudden, shrieking at the dismal glare
« Of funeral torches, far they speed away.
• Far with the Loves each blissful omen speeds;
• Her eighteenth April hears her widow'd moan:
• No more a goddess in the swimming dance,
. May'st thou, O queen, thy lovely form display';
. For the cold north the trembling fails are spread:
• Ah, what drear horrors gliding through thy breast, • While from thy weeping eyes fair Gallia fled,
• Thy future woes in boding fighs confessd *!
* The unhappy Mary in her infarcy was sent to France, to the care of her mother's family, the House of Guise. The French court was at that time the gayest and most gallant of Europe. H re the Princess of Scotland was educated, with all the distinctions due to her high rank; and, as soon as years would allow, she 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 Guise 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 seemed to forebode her future misfortunes.
A nation stern and stubborn to command,
• And now convuls’d with Faction's fiercest rage, • Commits it's fceptre to thy gentle hand, .
• And aks a bridle from thy tender age."
As weeping thus they sung, the omens rose,
Her native shore receives the mournful queen ; November wind o'er the bare landscape blows,
In hazy gloom the sea-wave skirts the scene:
The house of Holy Rood, in sullen state,
Bleak in the shade of rude pild rocks appears ; Cold on the mountain's fide, the type of Fate,
It's shatter'd walls a Romish chapel rears.
No nodding grove here waves the shelt'ring bough;
O’er the dank vale, prophetick of her reign, Beneath the curving mountain's craggy brow,
The dreary echoes to the gales complain :
Beneath the gloomy clouds of rolling smoke,
The high pild city rears her Gothick tow'rs ; The stern-brow'd castle, from his lofty rock
Looks fcornful down, and fix'd defiance lours
Domestick bliss, that dear, that sov’reign joy,
Far from her hearth was seen to speed away; Straight dark-brow'd factions entering in, destroy
The seeds of peace, and mark her for their prey.
* These circumstances, descriptive of the environs of Holy Rood House, are local. Yet, however dreary the unimproved November view may appear, the connoisseur in gardening will perceive that plantation, and the other efforts of art, could easily convert the prospect into an agreeable and most romantick summer
No more by moon-fhine to the nuptial bow'r
Her Francis comes, by Love's soft fetters led ; Far other spouse now wakes her midnight hour*,
Enrag'd, and reeking from the harlot's bed.
i Ah, draw the veil ! Thrill trembles thro' the air ;
The veil was drawn, but darker scenes arose; Another nuptial couch the Fates prepare t,
The baleful teeming source of deeper woes.
The bridal torch her evil angel wav'd ;
Far from the couch offended Prudence fled : Of deepest crimes deceitful Faction rav'd,
And rouz'd her trembling from the fatal bed.
The hinds are seen in arms, and glitt'ring spears,
Instead of crooks, the Grampian shepherds wield; Fanatick rage the plowman's visage wears,
And red with slaughter lies the harveft field.
From Borthwick field, deserted and forlorn,
The beauteous queen, all tears, is seen to fly: Now thro' the streets a weeping captive borne 1,
Her woes the triumph of the vulgar eye!
* 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 address.
I When she was brought prisoner through the streets of Edinburgh, the suffered almost every indignity which an enraged mob could offer. Her person was bea daubed with mire, and her ear insulted with every term of vulgar abuse. Even Buchanan, when he relates these circumstances, seems to drop a tear over them.