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.

"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;

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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?
"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;

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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,

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And conquest smil'd upon thy country's foes;

"Thy Sire, o'erwhelm'd with more than human woe, (5)

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Bent his proud head in silence to the blow:

"Left thee at once his kingdom and his shame,

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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!

"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,

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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!

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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;

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Then, while the Southron left his native shore,

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

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

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They left thee friendless in a stranger's hands.

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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;

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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) |