Lies mix'd, and known no more. Ev'n his own race
Forget his name; and should the sound remain,
Ah, let ambition sicken at the thought!
Dull as a twice-told tale it meets the ear.

Founders of states, their countries' saviours, lie In dark oblivion: others only live

In fables wild and vague. Our hoary sires,
Who saw the wave of Marlborough's sword decide
The fate of Europe, and her trembling kings,
Relate his actions as a monkish tale
Without concern: and soon the days shall come,
When Prussia's hinds shall wild adventures tell
Of Fred'ric and his brothers, such as oft
The British labourer, by winter's fire,
Tells to his wond'ring children of the feats
Of Arthur and his knights, and Celtic wars.

Say, ye immortal sons of Heav'n, who rule
This nether world, who, from old Nimrod's days
Down to the present, have beheld the fate
Of emperors and kings, say, which the life
The ever-conscious shade will like to own?
Does Cæsar boast of his immortal name,
How, wading through the blood of millions, he
Enslav'd his country? No: he drops the head,
And imprecates oblivion to enwrap
The horrid tale. Not so poor Socrates:
With everlasting smiles he humbly owns
The life that was a blessing to mankind.

The heroes whose unconquerable souls
Would from their country's interest never flinch,
Look down with sweet complacence on the realms
Their valour sav'd. O Wallace, patriot chief!
Who durst alone thy country's right assert;
Betray'd and sworn away by all but thee.
And thou, great Bruce, who many a doubtful day,
For thy enslav'd and groaning country' sake,
Stray'd o'er the solitary hills of Lorn;
Say, what bold ecstasies, heroic joys,
Your mighty souls inspire, when you behold
A nation to this day bless'd by your arms!
And such the recompensing Heav'n of those,
The happy few, who truly great of soul
Are masters of themselves; who patient wait
Till virtue's endless sabbath shall arrive,
When vice shall reign no more, and virtue bleed
And weep no more; when every honest pang
Their hearts have felt, and mourn'd their efforts vain,
Shall yield high joy, when God himself applauds.

POLLIO.

THE peaceful evening breathes her balmy store; The playful school-boys wanton o'er the green; Where spreading poplars shade the cottage-door, The villagers in rustic joy convene.

Amid the secret windings of the wood,

With solemn meditation let me stray; This is the hour when, to the wise and good, The heavenly maid repays the toils of day.

The river murmurs, and the breathing gale Whispers the gently-waving boughs among; The star of ev'ning glimmers o'er the dale,

And leads the silent host of Heaven along.

How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad height,
The silver empress of the night appears!
Yon limpid pool reflects a stream of light,
And faintly in its breast the woodland bears.

The waters, tumbling o'er their rocky bed,

Solemn and constant, from yon dell resound; The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glebe; The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky ground.

August and hoary, o'er the sloping dale,

The gothic abbey rears its sculptur'd tow'rs; Dull through the roofs resounds the whistling gale; Dark solitude among the pillars low'rs.

Where yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves, And, solemn, shade a chapel's sad remains ; Where yon scath'd poplar through the window

waves,

And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains:

There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind,

Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where, Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staff reclin'd,

Pores on the graves, and sighs a broken pray'r.

High o'er the pines, that with their dark'ning shade

Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears
Its crumbling turrets: still its tow'ry head
A warlike mien, a sullen grandeur wears.

So, midst the snow of age, a boastful air

Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends; Still his big bones his youthful prime declare, Though trembling o'er the feeble crutch he bends.

Wild round the gates the dusky wall-flow'rs creep, Where oft the knights the beauteous dames have led;

Gone is the bower, the grot a ruin'd heap,
Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments spread.

'T was here our sires, exulting from the fight, Great in their bloody arms, march'd o'er the lea, Eying their rescu'd fields with proud delight;

Now lost to them! and, ah, how chang'd to me!

This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze,
The dear idea of my Pollio bring;
So shone the Moon through these soft nodding trees,
When here we wander'd in the eves of spring.

When April's smiles the flow'ry lawn adorn,

And modest cowslips deck the streamlet's side; When fragrant orchards to the roseate morn Unfold their bloom, in Heaven's own colours dy'd:

So fair a blossom gentle Pollio wore,

These were the emblems of his healthful mind; To him the letter'd page display'd its lore,

To him bright fancy all her wealth resign'd:

Him with her purest flames the Muse endow'd, Flames never to th' illiberal thought ally'd; The sacred Sisters led where virtue glow'd

In all her charms; he saw, he felt, and dy'd.

Oh, partner of my infant griefs and joys!

Big with the scenes now past my heart o'erflows, Bids each endearment, fair as once, to rise,

And dwells luxurious on her melting woes.

Oft with the rising Sun when life was new,

Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee; Oft by the Moon have brush'd the evening dew, When all was fearless innocence and glee.

The sainted well where yon bleak hill declines,

Has oft been conscious of those happy hours; But now the hill, the river crown'd with pines,

And sainted well, have lost their cheering pow'rs:

For thou art gone-My guide, my friend, oh where,

Where hast thou fled, and left me here behind? My tenderest wish, my heart to thee was bare,

Oh, now cut off each passage to thy mind!

How dreary is the gulf, how dark, how void,
The trackless shores that never were repass'd!
Dread separation! on the depth untry'd

Hope faulters, and the soul recoils aghast.

Wide round the spacious Heav'ns I cast my eyes; And shall these stars glow with immortal fire, Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies,

And could thy bright, thy living soul expire?

Far be the thought- -the pleasures most sublime, The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear, The tow'ring wish that scorns the bounds of time, Chill'd in this vale of death, but languish here:

So plant the vine on Norway's wintry land,

The languid stranger feebly buds and dies;
Yet there's a clime where virtue shall expand,
With godlike strength, beneath her native skies.

The lonely shepherd on the mountain's side,
With patience waits the rosy op'ning day;
The mariner at midnight's darksome tide,
With cheerful hope expects the morning ray :

Thus I, on life's storm-beaten ocean tost,

In mental vision view the happy shore, Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful coast, Where fate and death divide the friends no more.

Oh, that some kind, some pitying kindred shade, Who now, perhaps, frequents this solemn grove, Would tell the awful secrets of the dead,

And from my eyes the mortal film remove!

Vain is the wish-yet surely not in vain
Man's bosom glows with that celestial fire,
Which scorns Earth's luxuries, which smiles at pair,
And wings his spirit with sublime desire.

To fan this spark of Heaven, this ray divine,
Still, oh, my soul! still be thy dear employ;
Still thus to wander through the shades be thine,
And swell thy breast with visionary joy :

So, to the dark-brow'd wood, or sacred mount,
In ancient days, the holy seers retir'd,
And, led in vision, drank at Siloe's fount,
While rising ecstasies their bosoms fir'd;

Restor'd creation bright before them rose,

The burning deserts smil'd as Eden's plains,
One friendly shade the wolf and lambkin chose,
The flow'ry mountains sung, "Messiah reigns!"

Though fainter raptures my cold breast inspire,
Yet, let me oft frequent this solemn scene,
Oft to the abbey's shatter'd walls retire,
What time the moonshine dimly gleams between.

There, where the cross in hoary ruin nods,

And weeping yews o'ershade the letter'd stones, While midnight silence wraps these drear abodes, And soothes me wand'ring o'er my kindred bones,

Let kindled fancy view the glorious morn,
When from the bursting graves the just shall rise,
All nature smiling, and, by angels borne,
Messiah's cross far blazing o'er the skies.

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

AN ELEGY.

Quod tibi vitæ sors detraxit, Fama adjiciet posthuma laudí; Nostris longum tu dolor et honor,

Buchanan.

THE balmy zephyrs o'er the woodland stray,
And gently stir the bosom of the lake:
The fawns, that panting in the covert lay,
Now through the gloomy park their revels take.

Pale rise the rugged hills that skirt the north,
The wood glows yellow'd by the ev'ning rays,
Silent and beauteous flows the silver Forth,

And Annan murm'ring through the willows strays.
But, ah! what means this silence in the grove,
Where oft the wild notes sooth'd the love-sick boy?
Why cease in Mary's bow'r the songs of love?
The songs of love, of immocence, and joy!

When bright the lake reflects the setting ray,

The sportive virgins tread the flow'ry green; Here by the Moon full oft in cheerful May,

The merry bride-maids at the dance are seen. But who these nymphs that through the copse appear,

In robes of white adorn'd with violet blue? Fondly with purple flow'rs they deck yon bier, And wave in solemn pomp the bows of yew.

Supreme in grief, her eye confus'd with woe,
Appears the lady of th' aërial train,
Tall as the sylvan goddess of the bow,

And fair as she who wept Adonis slain.

Such was the pomp when Gilead's virgin-band, Wand'ring by Judah's flow'ry mountains, wept, And with fair Iphis, by the hallow'd strand

Of Siloe's brook, a mournful sabbath kept.

By the resplendent cross with thistles twin'd,

T is Mary's guardian Genius lost in woe: "Ah, say, what deepest wrongs have thus combin'd

To heave with restless sighs thy breast of snow?

"Oh, stay, ye Dryads, nor unfinish'd fly

Your solemn rites! Here comes no foot profane: The Muse's son, and hallow'd is his eye,

Implores your stay, implores to join the strain.

"See, from her cheek the glowing life-blush flies!
Alas! what falt'ring sounds of woe be these?
Ye nymphs, who fondly watch her languid eyes,
Oh, say what music will her soul appease?"

"Resound the solemn dirge," the nymphs reply, "And let the turtles moan in Mary's bow'r; Let grief indulge her grand sublimity,

And melancholy wake her melting pow'r; "For art has triumph'd-Art, that never stood On honour's side, or gen'rous transport knew, Has dy'd its haggard hands in Mary's blood, And o'er her fame has breath'd its blighting dew.

"But come, ye nymphs, ye woodland spirits come, And with funereal flow'rs your tresses braid, While in this hallow'd bower we raise the tomb, And consecrate the song to Mary's shade.

"O sing what smiles her youthful morning wore, Her 's ev'ry charm, and ev'ry loveliest grace, When nature's happiest touch could add no more, Heav'n lent an angel's beauty to her face. "Oh! whether by the moss-grown bushy dell, Where from the oak depends the misletoe, Where creeping ivy shades the Druids' cell,

Where from the rock the gurgling waters flow:

"Or, whether sportive o'er the cowslip beds,

You, through the fairy dales of Teviot glide, Or brush the primrose banks, while Cynthia sheds Her silv'ry light o'er Esk'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.

"And come, ye fleet magicians of the air,"

The mournful lady of the chorus cry'd; "Your airy tints of baleful hue prepare, And through this grove bid Mary's fortunes glide: "And let the songs, with solemn harpings join'd, And wailing notes, unfold the tale of woe!" She spoke, and, waking through 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 sceptres 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;
When sudden, shrieking at the dismal glare
Of funeral torches, far they speed away.

"Far with the Loves each blissful omen speeds,
Her eighteenth April hears her widow'd moan,
The bridal bed the sable hearse succeeds,
And struggling factions shake her native throne.

"No more a goddess in the swimming dance,
May'st thou, O queen! thy lovely form display;
No more thy beauty reign the charm of France,
Nor in Parisian bow'rs outshine the day.

"For the cold north the trembling sails are spread; Ah, what drear horrours gliding through thy breast!

While from thy weeping eyes fair Gallia fled,
Thy future woes in boding sighs confess'd 1!

"A nation stern, and stubborn to command, And now convuls'd with faction's fiercest rage, Commits its sceptre to thy gentle hand,

And asks a bridle from thy tender age.”

As weeping thus they sung, the o nens 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-rood, in sullen state,
Bleak in the shade of rude-pil'd rocks appears;
Cold on the mountain's side, type of her fate,
Its shatter'd walls a Romish chapel rears.

No nodding grove here waves the shelt'ring bough
O'er the dark 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 tow'rs; The stern brow'd castle, from his lofty rock, Looks scornful down, and fix'd defiance low'rs✨

The unhappy Mary, in her infancy, was sent to France to the care of her mother's family, the house of Guise. The French court was at that time the gayest and most gallant of Europe. Here the princess of Scotland was educated with all the distinction due to her high rank; and as soon as years would allow, she was married to the dauphin, afterwards Francis II. and on the death of this mo narch, 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 melancholy which seemed to forebode her future misfortunes.

2 These circumstances, descriptive of the environs of Holy-rood House are local; yet, however dreary

No more by moonshine to the nuptial bow'r

Her Francis comes, by love's soft fetters led; Far other spouse now wakes her midnight hour 3, Enrag'd, and reeking from the harlot's bed.

"Ah! draw the veil !" shrill trembles through the air:

The veil was drawn-but darker scenes arose, Another 4 nuptial couch the Fates prepare, The baleful teeming source of deeper woes.

The bridal torch her evil angel wav'd,

Far from the couch offended prudence fled; Of deepest crimes deceitful faction rav'd,

And rous'd her trembling from the fatal bed.

The hinds are seen in arms, and glitt'ring 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 through the streets a weeping captive borne, Her woe 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, Heav'n oft delights to set the virtuous free; Some friend appears and breaks affliction's chain: But, ah, no gen'rous friend appears for thee!

A prison's ghastly walls and grated cells

Deform'd the airy scenery as it pass'd; The haunt where listless melancholy dwells, Where ev'ry genial feeling sinks 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, gen'rous passion, peace, forbear, forbear!

the unimproved November view may appear, the connoisseur in gardening will perceive that plantation, and the efforts of art, could easily convert the prospect into an agreeable and most romantic summer landscape.

3 Lord Darnley, the handsomest man of his age, but a worthless debauchee of no abilities.

+ Her marriage with the earl of Bothwell, an unprincipled politician of great address.

5 When she was brought prisoner through the streets of Edinburgh, she suffered almost every indignity which an outrageous mob could offer. Her person was bedaubed with mire, and her ear insulted with every term of vulgar abuse. Even Buchanan seems to drop a tear when he relates these circumstances.

This is according to the truth of history.

"And could, oh, Tudor! could thy heart retain No soft'ning 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 mem'ry 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 mem❜ry 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 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.

"The babe that prattled on his nurse's knee, When first thy woeful captive hours began, Ere Heav'n, ah, hapless Mary! set thee free,

That babe to battle march'd in arm's—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 axe, the block its 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; Languid they walk, and pensive hang the head, And silent 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:
The axe 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 rattling fawn,
He stands impatient of the starting prize.

The sov'reign dame her awful eye-balls roll'd,

As Cuma's maid when by the god inspir'd; "The depth 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 sov'reign pride, wherever roars the main, Stream to the wind, and awe the trembling world.

"Nor Britain's sceptre 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 sits; cold grief has glaz'd her eye,
And anguish gnaws her, till she breathes no more.