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But ah! what means this filence in the

grove, Where oft the wild-notes footh'd the love-fick boy? Why cease in Mary's bower the songs of Love,

The songs of Love, of Innocence, and Joy?

When bright the lake reflects the setting ray,

The sportive virgins' tread the flowery green; Here by the moon, full oft in chearful May,

The merry bridé-maids at the dance are seen.

But who these Nymphs that thro' the copfe appear

In robes of white adorn'd with violet blue? Fondly with purple fowers they deck yon bier,

And wave in solemn pomp the boughs of yew.

Supreme in grief, her eye confus’d with woe,

Appears the Lady of th' aerial train, Tall as the fylvan Goddess of the bow,

And fair as the who wept Adonis flain.

Such was the pomp when Gilead's virgin band,

Wandering by Judah's flowery mountains, wept, And with fair Iphis by the hallowed strand

Of Siloe's brook a mournful fabbath kept.

By the resplendent cross with thistles twind,

'Tis Mary's Guardian Genius lost in woe: “ Ah say, what deepest wrongs have thus combin'd

To heave with restless fighs thy breast of snow!

« Oh stay, Dryads, nor unfinish'd Ay

“ Your folemn rites ; here comes no foot profane : " The Muses' son, and hallowed is his

eye, Implores ġour stay, implores to join the strain.

“ See, from her cheek the glowing life-blush flies ;

“ Alas, what faultering founds of woe be these! “ Ye Nymphs, who fondly watch her languid eyes,

“ Oh say, what music will her soul appease!”

Resound the folemn dirge, the Nymphs reply,

• And let the turtles moan in Mary's bower, “ Let Grief indulge her grand fublimity,

“ And Melancholy wake her melting power:

“ For Art has triumphd; Art, that never stood

« On Honour's sidē, or generous transport knew, “ Has dy'd its haggard hånds in Mary's blood,

6. And o'er her fame has breath'd its blighting dew,

“ But come, ye Nymphs, ye woodland Spirits, come, " And with funereal flowers


tresses braid, " While in this hallow'd grove we raise the tomb,

“ And confecrate the song to Mary's shade.

• Her's every

“ O sing what smiles her youthful morning wore, chárm, and every


grace; “ When Nature's happiest touch could add no more, “ Heaven lent an angel's beauty to her face. B 2

66 O! whether

Vol. III.

« O! whether by the moss-grown bushy dell,

“ Where from the oak depends the milletoe, “ Where creeping ivy shades the Druid's cell,

" Where from the rock the gurgling waters flow ;

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« Or whether sportive o'er the cowslip beds,

• You thro’ the fairy dales of Teviot glide, " Or brush the primrose banks while Cynthia Meds

“ Her filvery light o'er Elk's translucent tide;

“ Hither, ye gentle Guardians of the Fair,

“ By Virtue's tears, by weeping Beauty, come; • Unbind the festive robes, unbind the hair,

« And wave the cypress bough at Mary's tomb.

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" And come, ye fleet Magicians of the air,

• The mournful Lady of the chorus cry'd, Your airy tints of baleful hue

prepare, “ And thro' this grove bid Mary's fortune's glide:


And let the song with folemn harping join'd,

“ And wailing notes unfold the tale of woe.” She spoke, and waking thro' the breathing wind

From lyres unseen the solemn harpings flow.

The song began, “ How bright her early morn!

What lasting joys her smiling fate portends ! " To wield the awful British scepters born,

“ And Gaul's young heir her bridal-bed ascends.


" See, round her bed, light-floating on the air,

- The little Loves their purple wings display; #6 When sudden, Arieking at the dismal glare

« Of funeral torches, far they speed away.

6 Far with the Loves each blissful omen fpeeds,

Her eighteenth April hears her widow'd moan ; « The bridal bed the fable hearfe succeeds,

"And struggling Factions fhake her native throne..

* No more a Goddess in the swimming dance

“ May'd thou, O Queen, thy lovely form display: ** No more thy beauty reign the charm of France,

“ Nor in Versailles proud bowers outshine the day.

« For the cold North the trembling fails are spread;

“ Ah, what drear horrors gliding through thy breaft, “ While from thy weeping eyes fair Gallia fled,

Thy future woes in boding fighs confest! 2

a The unhappy Mary in her infancy was sent to France, to the care of her mother's famịly, the House of Gạise. The French Court was at that time the gayest and most gallant of Europe. Here the Princess of Sçotland was educated, with all the distinctions due to her high rank; and, as soon as years would allow, she was married to the Dauphin, afterwards Francis II. On the death of this monarch, which closed a short reign, the politics of the House of Guise required the return of the young Queen to Scotland.' She left France with tears and the utmost reluctance; and on her landing in her native kingdom, the different appearance of the country awakened all her regret, and affected her with a melancholy, which seemed to forebode her future misfortuneae

B 3

16 A nam

« A nation ftern and stubborn to command,

“ And now convuls'd with Faction's fiercest rage, " Commits its scepter to thy gentle hand,

" And asks a bridle from thy tender age.”

As weeping thus they sung, the omens rose,

Her native shore receives the mournful Queen ; November wind o'er the bare landscape blows,

In hazy gloom the sea-wave skirts the scene :

The House of Holy Roodin sullen state,

Bleak in the shade of rude pil'd rocks appears ; Cold on the mountain's fide, the type of fate,

Its shatter'd walls a Romilh chapel rears :

No nodding grove here waves the sheltering bough;

O'er the dank vale, prophetic of her reign, Beneath the curving mountain's craggy brow

The dreary echoes to the gales complain :

Beneath the gloomy clouds of rolling smoke

The high pil'd city rears her Gothic towers; The ftern-brow'd castle, from his lofty rock

Looks fcornful down, and fixt defiance lowers. 6

b These circumstances, descriptive of the environs of Holy Rood House, are local. Yet, however dreary the unimproved November view may appear, the connoisseur in gardening will perceive, that plantation, and the other effoits of art, could easily convert the prospect into an agreeable and most romantic summer landscape.


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