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, A prison's ghaftly walls, and grated cells, 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! 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? The babe that prattled on his nurse's knee, 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 clouded moon her dreary glimpfes fhed, And Mary's maids (a mournful train !) pass by; Serene and nobly mild appears the queen; She fmiles on Heav'n, and bows the injur'd head : It fled the wood-nymphs o'er the distant lawn, The The fov'reign dame her awful eye-balls roll'd, She cries; and Mary's meed my breast has fir'd! On Tudor's throne her fons shall ever reign; 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; 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; And Anguish gnaws her till fhe breathes no more.' But hark!-loud howling thro' the midnight gloom, And lo! where Time with brighten'd face ferene, ⚫ See Truth walk forth, majestick, awful queen! 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 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 *. 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. A H, me! full forely is my heart forlorn, To think how modeft worth neglected lies, 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, A matron old, whom we School-miftrefs name; 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) Of sport, of fong, of pleasure, of repast: May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste! 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, |