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With stern, resolvd, despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart;
The storm no more I dread;
Round my devoted head.
And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorrd,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray’r !
To close this scene of care !
Resign life's joyless day;
No fear more, no tear more,
To strain my lifeless face;
Within thy cold embrace'
LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On ev'ry blooming tree,
Now Phæbus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;
That fast in durance lies.
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn
Aloft on dewy wing;
Makes woodland echoes ring;
Sings drowsy day to rest;
W care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae,
And milk-white is the slae :
May rove the sweets amang;
Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the Queen o’ bonie France,
Where happy I hae been;
As blithe lay down at e’en ;
And monie a traitor there;
But as for thee, thou false woman,
My sister and my fue, Grim Vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That thro' thy soul shall gae;
Was never known to thee;
Frae woman's pitying 'e'e.
My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;
That ne'er wad blink on mine!
Or turn their hearts to thee;
Remember him for me!
O! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
Let winter round me rave!
Bloom on my peaceful grave!
THE LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S
Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself,
O thou pale orb, that silent shines,
While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
And wanders here to wail and weep.
Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;
How life and love are all a dream.
I joyless view thy rays adorn
The faintly-marked distant hill;
Reflected in the gurgling rill:
Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!
For ever bar returning peace!
No idly-feign'd poetic pains,
My sad love-lorn lamentings claim;
No fabled tortures, quaint and tame,
The oft-attested Pow’rs above;
These were the pledges of my love!
Encircled in her clasping arms,
How have the raptur'd moments flown!
For her dear sake, and hers alone!
My secret heart's exulting boast ?
And is she ever, ever lost?
Oh! can she bear so base a heart,
So lost to honor, lost to truth,
The plighted husband of her youth ?
Her way may lie thro’ rough distress;
Her sorrows share, and make them less ?
Ye winged hours that o'er us past,
Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy'd,
My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd.
For her too scanty once of room!