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Again the vision shifts the woeful scene :

Again, forlorn, from rebel arms she flies; And, unsuspecting, on a fifter queen,

The lovely injur'd fugitive relies.

When Wisdom, baffled, owns th' attempt in vain,

Heav'n oft delights to set the virtuous free; Some friend appears, and breaks Aficion's chain

But, ah! no gen'rous friend appears for thee !

A prison's ghaftly walls, and grated cells,

Deform'd the airy scenery 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 stern command! a proffer'd friend!

• Oh, gen'rous paffion, peace! forbear, forbear!

. 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

• Didit sue 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.

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• And say, 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 woes, shall Pity bleed!

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• The babe that prattled on his nurse's knee,

- When first thy woeful captive hours began; • Ere Heaven, O hapless Mary! set thee free,

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

An awful pause ensues — With speaking eyes,

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

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

With dreary black hung round the hall appears,

The thirsty faw-duit strews the marble floor ; Blue gleams' the axe, the block it's shoulders rears,

And pikes and halberts guard the iron door.

The clouded moon her dreary glimpses shed,

And Mary's maids (a mournful train !) pass by i 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 smiles on Heav'n, and bows the injur'd head a The axe is lifted from the deathful scene,

The guardians turn'd, and all the picture filed.

It fed the wood-nymphs o'er the distant lawn,

As rapt in vision, dart their earnest eyes :
So, when the huntsman hears the ruftling fawn,

He stands impatient of the Starting prize.

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The fov'reign dame her awful eye-balls rollid,

As Cuma's maid when by the god inspir’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 sons shall ever reign;

Age after age shall see their Aag unfurl'd,
• With sov'reign pride, wherever roars the main,

Stream to the wind, and awe the trembling world.

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Nor Britain's fceptre shall they wield alone;

Age after age, through length’ning time, shall see • Her branching race on Europe's ev'ry throne,

• And either India bend to them the knee.

• But Tudor as a fruitless gourd shall die;

I see her death-scene-On the lowly floor
• Dreary she fits; cold Grief has glass'd her eye,

* And Anguish gnaws her till the breathes no more.'

But hark !-loud howling thro’ the midnight gloom,

Faction is rouz'd, and sends the baleful yell !
O fave, ye gen'rous few, your Mary's tomb !

O fave her ashes from the blasting 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!
* And Party's black’ning milts before her fly.

• Falhood, unmask'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 splendors 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 vision filed *.

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What particulars in Spenser were imagined most proper for the author's imitation

on this occasion, are his language, his fimplicity, his manner of description, and a peculiar tenderness of sentiment remarkable throughout his works.

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H, me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,

To think how modest worth neglected lies, While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn

Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise ; Deeds of ill fort, and mischievous emprize :

Lend me thy clarion, Goddess ! let me try To found the praise of Merit ere it dies ş

Such as I oft have chanced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull obfcurity,

* The author of this little poem to the memory of an unhappy princess is un, willing to enter into the controversy respecting her guilt or her innocence. Sufe fice it only to observe, that the following facts may be proved to demonstration : the letters, which have always been esteemed as the principal proof of Queen Mary's guilt, are forged. Buchanan, on whose authority Thuanus and other hiftorians have condemned her, has falliticd several circumstances of her history, and has cited against her publick records which never existed, as has been lately proved to demonitration. And, to add no more, the treatment she received from her illustrious cousin 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 express the indignation at the cruel treatment of Mary, which history must ever inspire, and to drop a tear over her sufferings, is not un. Worthy of a writer who would appear in the cause of virtue.

In ev'ry village, mark'd with little spire,

Embow'r'd in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,

A matron old, whom we School-inistress name; Who boasts 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 talk 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 small regard to see,

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

For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse 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 seen (who has not, may conceive)

A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd ;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,

Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repaft:
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghaft ;

Sad fervitude! fuch comfortless amoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!

Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,

On which the tribe their gambols do display ; And at the door impris’ning board is feen,

Left weakly wights of smaller fize should stray,

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