The hinds are seen in arms, and glittering spears Instead of crooks the Grampian shepherds wield; Fanatic rage the ploughman's visage wears, And red with slaughter lies the harvest field. From Borthwick field, deserted and forlorn, Again the vision shifts the woeful scene ; When Wisdom baffled owns th' attempt in vain, Heaven oft delights to set the virtuous free: Some friend appears, and breaks Affliction's chain, But ah, no generous friend appears for thee! A prison's ghastly walls and grated cells No female eye her sickly bed to tend! "Ah cease to tell it in the female ear! A woman's stern command! a proffer'd friend! Oh generous passion, peace, forbear, forbear ! "And could, oh Tudor, could thy breast retain "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 sake, For Mary's sake, 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 politics alone engag'd thy view; With female jealousy thy bosom glow'd. "And say, did Wisdom own thy stern command? "The babe that prattled on his nurse's knee, When first thy woeful captive hours began, Ere heaven, ah hapless Mary, set thee free, That babe to battle march'd in arms a man." An awful pause ensues- -With speaking eyes, wait, While slow 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, rears, The clouded moon her dreary glimpses shed, And Mary's maids, a mournful train, pass by; Languid they walk, and listless hang the head, And silent tears pace down from every eye. Serene and nobly mild appears the Queen, She smiles on heaven, and bows the injur'd head The ax 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, The sovereign Dame her awful eye-balls roll'd, As Cuma's maid when by the God inspir'd; "The depths of ages to my sight unfold,”. She cries, "and Mary's meed my breast has fir'd. "On Tudor's throne her Sons shall ever reign, "Nor Britain's sceptre shall they wield alone, "But Tudor as a fruitless gourd shall die; I see her death-scene-On the lowly floor Dreary she sits, cold Grief has glass'd her eye, And Anguish gnaws her till she breathes no more.” But hark-loud howling thro' the midnight gloom, "And lo, where Time with brighten'd face serene, "Falshood unmask'd withdraws her ugly train, The milky splendors of the dawning ray Now thro' the grove a trembling radiance shed, With sprightly note the sky-lark hail'd the day, And with the moon-shine all the vision fled. ELEGY XV. ON THE DEATH OF MARIA GUNNING, Countess of Coventry. WRITTEN IN MDCCLX. BY THE REV. WILLIAM MASON, M. A. THE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell Yes, COVENTRY is dead. Attend the strain, For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom: (This Envy owns, since now her bloom is fled) Fair as the Forms that, wove in Fancy's loom, Float in light vision round the Poet's head. |