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Again the vifion fhifts the woeful scene:

Again, forlorn, from rebel arms fhe flies; And, unfufpecting, on a fifter queen,

The lovely injur❜d fugitive relies.

When Wisdom, baffled, owns th' attempt in vain,
Heav'n oft delights to fet the virtuous free;
Some friend appears, and breaks Affliction's chain-
But, ah! no gen'rous friend appears for thee!

A prison's ghaftly walls, and grated cells,
Deform'd the airy fcenery as it pafs'd;
The haunt where liftlefs Melancholy dwells,
Where ev'ry genial feeling shrinks aghaft.

No female eye her fickly bed to tend *!

Ah, cease to tell it in the female ear!

• A woman's ftern command! a proffer'd friend! Oh, gen'rous paffion, peace! forbear, forbear!

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And could, O Tudor! could thy breast retain • No foft'ning thought of what thy woes had been, • When thou, the heir of England's crown, in vain • Didft fue the mercy of a tyrant queen ?

• And could no pang from tender memory wake,

• And feel those woes that once had been thine own!

No pleading tear to drop for Mary's fake;

• For Mary's fake, the heir of England's throne?

Alas! no pleading touch thy memory knew ;

'Dry'd were the tears which for thyself had flow'd : Dark politicks alone engag'd thy view;

• With female jealousy thy bosom glow'd.

* A fact.

• And

And fay, did Wisdom own thy stern command?
• Did Honour wave his banner o'er the deed?
Ah !—Mary's fate thy name shall ever brand;
And ever, o'er her waes, fhall Pity bleed!

The babe that prattled on his nurse's knee,
When first thy woeful captive hours began;
Ere Heaven, O hapless Mary! fet thee free,

That babe to battle march'd, in arms a man!'

An awful paufe enfues!-With fpeaking eyes,

And hands half rais'd, the guardian wood-nymphs wait; While flow and fad the airy fcenes arise,

Stain'd with the laft deep woes of Mary's fate!

With dreary black hung round the hall appears,
The thirsty faw-duft ftrews the marble floor;
Blue gleams the axe, the block it's fhoulders rears,
And pikes and halberts guard the iron door.

The clouded moon her dreary glimpfes fhed,

And Mary's maids (a mournful train !) pass by;
Languid they walk, and liftlefs hang the head,
And filent tears pace down from ev'ry eye.

Serene and nobly mild appears the queen;

She fmiles on Heav'n, and bows the injur'd head :
The axe is lifted-from the deathful scene,
The guardians turn'd, and all the picture fled.

It fled the wood-nymphs o'er the distant lawn,
As rapt in vision, dart their earnest eyes :
So, when the huntfman hears the ruftling fawn,
He ftands impatient of the starting prize.

The

The fov'reign dame her awful eye-balls roll'd,
As Cuma's maid when by the god infpir'd;
The depths of ages to my fight unfold!'

She cries; and Mary's meed my breast has fir'd!

On Tudor's throne her fons shall ever reign;

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Age after age fhall fee their flag unfurl'd,

• With fov'reign pride, wherever roars the main, Stream to the wind, and awe the trembling world.

'Nor Britain's fceptre shall they wield alone;

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Age after age, through length'ning time, fhall fee 'Her branching race on Europe's ev'ry throne,

And either India bend to them the knee.

But Tudor as a fruitless gourd fhall die;
'I fee her death-scene-On the lowly floor
Dreary fhe fits; cold Grief has glass'd her eye,

And Anguish gnaws her till fhe breathes no more.'

But hark!-loud howling thro' the midnight gloom,
Faction is rouz'd, and fends the baleful yell!
O fave, ye gen'rous few, your Mary's tomb !
O fave her ashes from the blafting spell!

And lo! where Time with brighten'd face ferene,
Points to yon far, but glorious op'ning sky;

⚫ See Truth walk forth, majestick, awful queen!

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And Party's black'ning mifts before her fly.

Falfhood, unmafk'd, withdraws her ugly train,

And Mary's virtues all illustrious shine

Yes, thou haft friends! the godlike and humane
Of latest ages, injur'd queen, are thine.'

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The milky fplendors of the dawning ray,

Now thro' the grove a trembling radiance shed; With sprightly note the woodlark hail'd the day, And with the moon-fhine all the vifion fled *.

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What particulars in Spenfer were imagined moft proper for the author's imitation on this occasion, are his language, his fimplicity, his manner of description, and a peculiar tenderness of fentiment remarkable throughout his works.

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H, me! full forely is my heart forlorn,

To think how modeft worth neglected lies,
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill fort, and mifchievous emprize:
Lend me thy clarion, Goddefs! let me try
To found the praife of Merit ere it dies
Such as I oft have chanced to espy,

Loft in the dreary fhades of dull obfcurity.

The author of this little poem to the memory of an unhappy princefs is un willing to enter into the controverfy refpecting her guilt or her innocence. Suf fice it only to obferve, that the following facts may be proved to demonftration: the letters, which have always been efteemed as the principal proof of Queen Mary's guilt, are forged. Buchanan, on whofe authority Thuanus and other hiftorians have condemned her, has falfified feveral circumstances of her history, and has cited against her publick records which never exifted, as has been lately proved to demonftration. And, to add no more, the treatment fhe received from her illuftrious coufin was dictated by a policy truly Machiavelian; a policy which trampled on the obligations of honour, of humanity, and morality. From whence it may be inferred, that to exprefs the indignation at the cruel treatment of Mary, which history muft ever infpire, and to drop a tear over her fufferings, is not unworthy of a writer who would appear in the caufe of virtue.

In ev'ry village, mark'd with little fpire,
Embow'r'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,

A matron old, whom we School-miftrefs name;
Who boafts unruly brats with birch to tame :
They, grieven fore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame,
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are forely fhent.

And all in fight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which Learning near her little dome did ftowe, Whilome a twig of fmall regard to fee,

Tho' now fo wide it's waving branches flow, And work the fimple vaffals mickle woe;

For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs fhudder'd, and their pulfe beat low; And as they look'd they found their horror grew, And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.

So have I feen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,

Of sport, of fong, of pleasure, of repast:
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast;
Sad fervitude! fuch comfortless annoy

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
Ne fuperftition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vifion empty, vain, his native blifs destroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch so

green,

On which the tribe their gambols do difplay;

And at the door impris'ning board is feen,
Left weakly wights of fmaller fize should stray,

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