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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,
The beauteous Queen all tears is seen to fly;
Now thro' the streets a weeping captive borne,
Her woes the triumph of the vulgar eye.

Again the vision shifts the woeful scene ;
Again forlorn from rebel arms she flies,
And unsuspecting on a Sister Queen,
The lovely injur'd Fugitive relies.

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
Deform'd the airy scenery as it past;
The haunt where listless Melancholy dwells,
Where every genial feeling shrinks aghast.

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
No softening thought of what thy woes had been,
When thou, the heir of England's crown, in vain
Didst 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 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?
Did Honor 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.

"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,
And hands half rais'd, the guardian Wood Nymphs

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,
The thirsty saw-dust strews the marble floor,
Blue gleams the ax, the block its shoulders
And pikes and halberts guard the iron door.

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,
As rapt in vision, dart their earnest eyes;
So when the huntsman hears the rustling fawn,
He stands impatient of the starting prize.

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,
Age after age shall see their flag unfurl'd,
With sovereign pride, where-ever roars the main,
Stream to the wind, and awe the trembling world...

"Nor Britain's sceptre shall they wield alone,
Age after age through lengthening time shall see
Her branching race on Europe's every 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 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,
Faction is rous'd, and sends the baleful yell!
Oh save, ye generous Few, your Mary's tomb,
Oh save her ashes from the blasting spell;

"And lo, where Time with brighten'd face serene,
Points to yon far, but glorious opening sky;
See Truth walk forth, majestic awful Queen,
And Party's blackening mists before her fly.

"Falshood unmask'd withdraws her ugly train,
And Mary's virtues all illustrious shine-
Yes, thou hast friends, the godlike and humane
Of latest ages, injur❜d Queen, are thine.”

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
Of Death beats slow! heard ye the note profound
It pauses now; and now, with rising knell,
Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.

Yes, COVENTRY is dead. Attend the strain,
Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air,
So oft have tript in her fantastic train,
With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair:

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.

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