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With stern, resolvd, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.
Then low'ring and pouring,

The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick’ning and black’ning

Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorrd,
While life a pleasure can afford,

Oh! hear a wretch's pray’r !
No more I shrink appall’d, afraid,
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care !
When shall my soul, in silent peace,

Resign life's joyless day;
My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?

No fear more, no tear more,

To strain my lifeless face;
Enclasped and grasped

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,
And spreads her sheets o’ daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea;

Now Phæbus cheers the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn

Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bow'r,

Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis wild, wi’ many a note,

Sings drowsy day to rest;
In love and freedom they rejoice,

W care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose down the brae,
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And milk-white is the slae :
The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove the sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,

Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o’ bonie France,

Where happy I hae been;
Fu’ lightly raise I in the morn,

As blithe lay down at e’en ;
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,

And monie a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
And neve

ever-ending care.

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;
The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;
Nor th’ balm that draps on wounds of wo

Frae woman's pitying 'e'e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee;
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,

Remember him for me!

O! soon, to me, may summer-suns

Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And, in the narrow house o' death,

Let winter round me rave!
And the next flowers that deck the spring,

Bloom on my peaceful grave!

THE LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S

AMOUR.

Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself,
And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo.

HOME.

1.

O thou pale orb, that silent shines,

While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep.
With wo I nightly vigils keep,

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;
And mourn, in lamentation deep,

How life and love are all a dream.

11.

I joyless view thy rays adorn

The faintly-marked distant hill;
I joyless view thy trembling horn,

Reflected in the gurgling rill:
My fondly-fluttring heart, be still !

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill

For ever bar returning peace!

III.

No idly-feign'd poetic pains,

My sad love-lorn lamentings claim;
No shepherd's pipe -- Arcadian strains

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No fabled tortures, quaint and tame,
The plighted faith, the mutual flame,

The oft-attested Pow’rs above;
The promis’d Father's tender name;

These were the pledges of my love!

IV.

Encircled in her clasping arms,

How have the raptur'd moments flown!
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,

For her dear sake, and hers alone!
And must I think it! is she gone,

My secret heart's exulting boast ?
And does she heedless hear my groan?

And is she ever, ever lost?

Oh! can she bear so base a heart,

So lost to honor, lost to truth,
As from the fondest lover part,

The plighted husband of her youth ?
Alas! life's path may be unsmooth!

Her way may lie thro’ rough distress;
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe,

Her sorrows share, and make them less ?

VI.

Ye winged hours that o'er us past,

Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy'd,
Your dear remembrance in my breast,

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd.
That breast, how dreary now, and void,

For her too scanty once of room!
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,
And not a wish to gild the gloom

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