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Few years or hours may pass ere Time shall bring
A thousand sorrows on Misfortune's wing ;
Then when thine own a nation's tears shall drown,
Thy husband leave thee, and thy country frown ;
When from those arms thine offspring shall be torn,
And leave thee friendless, childless, and forlorn ;
When thy lone eye, where'er its glance may fall,
Shall rest on nothing save the dungeon-wall;
Then will thy thoughts recall that pleasing trance
Which lull’d thy childhood in the vales of France.

Ill-fated maid! while Heav'n yet smiles on thee,
And guides thy bark upon the trackless sea;
An aged Seer, who, when thy Sire was young,
Oft to the gale his martial music flung;
With arm uplifted, and with streaming locks,
Stands in deep sorrow on Dumbarton's rocks :
Reveal’d by Heav'n his omen'd words foretell
The future

pangs with which thy breast shall swell ; And thus, while distance hides thee from his view,

Breathes the wild accents of his last adieu !

III.

THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL.

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“ Ye smiling vales, and proud embattled towers, “ Where kings have warr'd, or beauty twin'd her

“ bowers ; “ Ye silvery streams that through each valley flow, “ Where Wallace thunder'd on the cowering foe;

Say, have these walls, which crown the haughty scene, “ Denied a shelter to their infant Queen ? “ Shall kings uncheck’d, with angry scorn, demand “ Your smiling monarch from her native land ? 66 Or she be doom'd in other realms to roam, “ And seek from them protection and a home?

“ Yet let it pass : a bitter hour is near, " When Scotland's sons shall mourn her with a tear ; “ While each proud chief shall view his country bleed, “ From foreign vices, and a foreign creed ; (4) “ And learn to curse the baleful gale which bore “ The youthful Mary from her native shore.

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“ Queen of the North! thy bark is on the main, • Thy Minstrel strikes his mournful harp in vain ; “ Else would he sing what tortures must be thine, “ What griefs must spring from Hope's deluding mine;

For, nurs’d in sorrow from thy earliest years, “ Brought forth in anguish, and baptiz'd in tears; " No doating father smiled upon thy birth, “ No people hail'd it with prophetic mirth : “ Or, if they did, their joy was forced to yield “ To each deep curse which rose from Solway-field; “ Then, when the war-shout of the Southron rose, “ And conquest smil'd upon thy country's foes ;

Thy Sire, o’erwhelm’d with more than human woe, (5) “ Bent his proud head in silence to the blow : “ Left thee at once his kingdom and his shame, “ Ere yet thou call’dst him by a father's name.

“Oh! when thy days of youth and joy are flown, “ When thou wilt sit upon the Bruce's throne; “ What bitter tears must dim these aged eyes, “ While woes on woes in quick succession rise !

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“ For know, young scion of a fated line,
“ In thee thy race shall all its ills combine ;(6)
“ From sire to son, to thee at length shall flow
“ Their more than human heritage of woe;
“ For long experience dooms me to foresee
Thy father's passions unrestrain'd in thee.

“ Yet in that form-unchang'd as yet-we trace “ The spotless mind, the purity of grace : “ That beaming smile, that love-inspiring eye, “ Blue as the cloudless azure of the sky; “ That soft'ning heart which melts at others woe, “ Join'd with each charm that beauty can bestow; “ Meet in a form well suited to impart “ Its tender influence to a lover's heart; “ Tho' doom’d, alas ! to guide a shatter'd helm, “ And reign the monarch of a tottering realm.

“ Ill-fated hour! when on thy brow was plac'd “ The crown that erst thy hapless line had grac'd !

Then, tho' each chieftain bent the willing knee, “ And vow'd unchang'd fidelity to thee;

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“ How soon, alas ! their resolutions died,

Supprest by int'rest, or repuls'd by pride!

By petty strifes, and rival factions torn, “ Unmov'd they view'd thee from their country borne;

Then, while the Southron left his native shore,

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“ To shake these vallies with the cannon's roar ;

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“ Too weak to save thee from their murd'rous bands,

They left thee friendless in a stranger's hands. “ Queen of the North! thy Minstrel's strains are o'er,

They cease to mingle with the torrent's roar : “ Oh! while thou roam'st in pleasure and in pride, “ Perchance forgetful of the silvery Clyde; “ While at thy glance a thousand swords shall shine, “ And rival chiefs exchange their feuds for thine;

Thy bard, descending in the vale of years, “ Will have no gift to offer but his tears : “ Yet these, young Queen! I never wish'd to dry, “ When aught but pleasure sparkled in thine eye; “ For I have watch'd thee tripping o'er the heath, “ In that fair isle which looks on blue Monteith ;(7) !

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