18 !!.] 
Original Poetry. 
Of weeping poets. Let Parnassus* Hill 
Drop dolefril elegifs into my quill. 
Were Ovid now alive, free from his hearse, 
He’d piove our friend in making English 
verse j 
Would God, iMelpoirsene that weeping Muse 
Would Einglan(i''-3 fair metropolis peruse; 
Now clad in ashes, she vrould be content 
T’ ingrave blak farcy on its monument. 
But stay—“her children now their summons 
have 
To usher this, their mother to her grave: 
Now England’s clad in black at th’ obloquie, 
As sore displeas’d at London’s livery. 
Oh, that our wits could make this dame sur¬ 
vive ; 
Whose deatli of joy did English hearts de¬ 
prive: 
Then might this Ere be but to refine her. 
And make her lustre to appear diviner; 
But, if that cannot be, we all may rue it, 
Azid say, iV««c seges ubi Troja fuit. 
SONNET 
To THE COMET OF 1811. 
fast declining is the lustr’ous blaze, 
Of yon vast orb that guilds the lofty tow’r, 
An^ mocks the toil of philosophic pow’r 
To tell the structure of its radiant rays; 
Whifch fill the soul with rapture and amaze. 
At whose resplendent light at ev’ning hour, 
"When o’er the azure sky no dark mists low’r, 
The wary multitude with wonder gaze. 
Say, beauteous stranger, hast thou chang’d 
thy course, 
To dart anew thy brilliant rays sublime, 
On some enlighten’d world with brighter 
force ? 
Or art thou bound for that sequester’d 
clime, 
Where some barbarian horde shall bend the 
knee, 
With reverential awe, and worship thee ? 
London,, William Taylor. 
The execution of MAPvY 
Slueen of Scots. 
THE PRIZE POEM. 
By Robert Garden, Hyde Abbey School^ 
Winchester, 
tales of fiction empty minds amuse. 
Come, heavenly Truth, and guide my 
serious Muset 
For feign’d distress, why should our sorrows 
liOW ? 
Wiien pity’s tear is claim’d by real woe. 
Let kings and sov’resgns lend a pensive ear, 
tiling to tell ihern, what they ought to 
hear j 
To tell the great, the beauteous, and the 
proud. 
How transient is the bliss to them allow’d ; 
How frail is grandeur, which th’ ambitious 
crave ; 
From thrones liow short the passage to th« 
grave ? 
Hurl’d from the summit of imperial state, 
A prey to vengeance and relentless hate. 
Bereft of friends, all helpless, and forlorn. 
Unhappy Mary from her kingdom torn. 
In gloomy cells consumes her joyless days. 
She mourns unpitied, and unheard she prays. 
Alternate hopes and fears her bosom sway ; 
Now fear prevails, now hope’s enlivening 
ray : 
Nor yet to fortune is she quite resign’d. 
Still do her former glories haunt her mind; 
Past scenes of pleasure to her fancy rise. 
E’en love expiring heaves some parting sighs, 
Elere, gentle Muse, in pity to her woes 
Seek not her merits rashly to disclose ; 
Forbear to censure ; since to Gad alone 
Her thoughts and actions can be rightly 
known 1 
Stung with fierce anguish and with sorrow 
wild. 
She mourns her absent friends, her absent 
child. 
Worn out with care, the eye no more can 
trace 
The former beauties of her youthful face. 
That face where Love itself had sat enthron’d 
Whose sway resistless kings and heroes own’d. 
So the fair lilies perish in the glade. 
If chilly blasts their snowy heads invade. 
Torn by the wind so droops the beauteous 
rose. 
Whose vivid bloom the summer rays disclose. 
Is this the queen that late in grandeur shone. 
And aw’d the trembling nations from the 
throne ? 
Where’s now the pow’r that ruled with high 
command 
Far distant Thule, and the Scottish land ? 
Where are the phantoms of gay pleasure fled. 
That lov’d to hover round her thoughtless 
head ? 
Where’s now the regal dome ? the stately 
board ? 
The liv’ried menial, and the suppliant lord ? 
All, all are fled, now treacherous future 
frowns. 
Lost is the pomp of pow’r, the pride of crowns. 
Ah! gen’rous Britons ! shall no pitying hand 
Restore tl)e suff’rer to her native land? 
Must she, a sov’reign, yield to foreign law’s ? 
Will no kind pleader vindicate her cause ? 
O spare! O spare 1 let not th’ inhuman stain 
Obscure the glories of Eliza’s reign. 
To fallen grandeur still be rev’rence paid. 
When by misfortune ’tis more sacred made. 
O ! let her sex its due protection find. 
An injur’d woman claims it of mankind. 
Let suff’rings past at least compassion gain ; 
When mercy pleads, Oh i shall she plead in 
vain } 
Yec 
