But who lies here? in marble lovely still,
Here let me pause, and fancy take her fill.
Poor ill-starr'd Mary; Melancholy gloom
And fond regrets are waking o'er thy tomb.
Bright was thy morn of promise, dark the day,
That clos'd thy fate in murderous Fotheringay!
How near thee lies that "bright star of the west,"
Elizabeth, of queens the wisest, best;
Her "lion port," and her imperial brow,
The dark grey stone essays in vain to show.
Ye royal rivals of a former day,
How has your love and hatred pass'd away!
To future times how faint the voice of fame,
For greatness here but "stalks an empty name."
Around, above, how sorrow builds her throne,
To snatch from death's embrace each treasure gone.
See, how the horrid phantom bends his bow,
And points his dart to lay that victim low![1]
She sinks, she falls, and her fond husband's breast
Is the cold pillow to that marble rest!
But softly tread upon the sacred ground,
Where Britain's bards lie sepulchred round.
Sons of the muse, who woke the magic spell,
From the deep windings of "Apollo's shell!"
Mute is each lyre, their silent strings are bound
With willow, yew, and cypress wreath'd around.
Their hopes, joys, sorrows, rest within the grave
Admiring nations to their relics gave.
Hail, mighty shades! bright spirits of the past;
Here may your ashes sleep while time shall last.