And, shattered, sprinkling liquid, stain her new brocade; Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade;

Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball;

Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must fall.
Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair;
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care;
The drops to thee, Brilliante, we consign;
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite lock;
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.
Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,

His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins.
Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins;
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye;
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,
While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain."

He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend,
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear.
With beating hearts the dire event they wait,
Anxious and trembling at the birth of Fate.
But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill!
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace
A two-edged weapon from her shining case:
The baron takes the gift with reverence and extends
The little engine on his fingers' ends;

This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair;
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair,

And thrice they twitched the diamonds in her ear,
Thrice she looked back and thrice the foe drew near.
The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide,
To enclose the lock; now joins it to divide.
E'en then, before the fatal engine closed,
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed.

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Fate urged the shears and cut the sylph in twain
(But airy substance soon unites again).
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
From the fair head forever and forever!

Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies,
As fierce Belinda on the baron flies!

"Restore the lock!" she cries, and all around,
"Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound.
The lock, obtained with guilt and kept with pain,
In every place is sought, but sought in vain;
With such a prize no mortal must be blest,

So Heaven decrees! With Heaven who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.
But trust the Muse-she saw it upward rise,
Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes.
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air

And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.

Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!

Not all the tresses that fair head can boast
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost.
This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.



[Boadicea was Queen of the Iceni, a British tribe inhabiting what are now the counties of Cambridge, Suffolk and Norfolk. The King, her husband, having died, bequeathed all his possessions to the Emperor Nero and his two daughters. The Roman centurions, however, took his kingdom, and gave his daughters to their slaves, while Boadicea was publicly scourged for some real or imaginary offence. The Roman governor being absent, she burst into London at the head of a large army, burned the city and killed thousands of the Romans and Roman subjects. The Roman governor immediately hurried home, and a battle was fought near St. Albans. The Britons, although_they fought valiantly and fiercely, were defeated by the disciplined Romans. Boadicea poisoned herself, A. D. 62.]

WHEN the British warrior Queen, bleeding from the Roman


Sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods; Sage beneath a spreading oak sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke, full of rage and full of grief:

"Princess, if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish--write that word in the blood that she has spilt ; Perish hopeless and abhorred, deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renowned, tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name ;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame.

"Then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command,

Regions Cæsar never knew thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they."

Such the bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire;
Bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; Rushed to battle, fought and died-dying, hurled them at the foe: "Ruffians, pitiless as proud! Heaven awards the vengeance due! Empire is on us bestowed, shame and ruin wait for you!"

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[Mary, having abdicated her throne after an unsuccessful attempt to retrieve her fortunes, crossed over into England and threw herself on the protection of Elizabeth, but was made a prisoner for life. After being removed from prison to prison, she was tried at last on a charge of conspiracy against the life of Elizabeth, and sentenced to death. In the hope of arresting the execution of that sentence, Mary solicited, and at length obtained, permission for an interview with Elizabeth. This took place at the Castle of Fotheringay. The scene opens on the arrival of Elizabeth and her retinue at the Castle.]

ELIZABETH. What seat is that, my lord?




"Tis Fotheringay.

My lord, send back our retinue to

The people crowd too eager in the roads;

We'll seek a refuge in this quiet park.

My honest people love me overmuch;

Thus should a God be honored, not a mortal.

MARY [who has been looking at ELIZABETH].
O God! from out those features speaks no heart!

ELIZ. What lady's that? [Silence.]

LEIC. You are at Fotheringay, my liege!
ELIZ. [as if surprised].


Who hath done this, my Lord of

LEIC. 'Tis past, my Queen, and now that Heaven hath led Your footsteps hither, be magnanimous,

And let sweet pity be triumphant now.

SHREWSBURY. O royal mistress! yield to our entreaties.

O cast your eyes on this unhappy one,

Who stands disclosed in anguish.

[MARY collects herself and advances toward ELIZABETH, but stops, shuddering.]

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Which of you, then, announced to me a prisoner
Bowed down by woe? I see a haughty one,

By no means humbled by calamity.

MARY. Well, be it so; to this will I submit. Farewell, high thought and pride of noble mind! I will forget my dignity and all

My sufferings; I will fall before her feet,

Who hath reduced me to this wretchedness.
The voice of Heaven decides for you, sister;

Your happy brows are now with triumph crowned;
I bless the power divine which thus hath raised you.
[Kneels.] But in your turn be merciful, my sister;
Let me not lie before you, thus disgraced;

Stretch forth your hand, your royal hand, to raise
Your sister from the depths of her distress.

ELIZ. You are where it becomes you, Lady Stuart,
And thankfully I prize my God's protection,
Who hath not suffered me to kneel a suppliant

Thus at your feet, as you now kneel at mine.

MARY. Oh, there are gods who punish wicked pride;
Respect them, honor them, the dreadful ones
Who thus before thy feet have humbled me;
Before these strangers' eyes dishonor not
Yourself in me; profane not, nor disgrace
The royal blood of Tudor. In my veins

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