TO MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. WRITTEN ON VISITING WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

My murder'd queen, as on thine image once

The gaze alike of prince and peasant rested—

As if, unsated of thy thrilling glance,

They never until then of beauty tasted:

So I, by lonely contemplation led

To muse awhile amid the silent dead—

Turn me from all around I hear or see—

From all of Shakspeare and of great to thee:

And think on all thy wrongs—on all the shame

That dims for ever thine oppressor's name;

On all thy faults, nor few nor far between,

But then thou wert—a woman and a queen.

Proud titles, even in a barb'rous age,

To stem th' impetuous tide of party rage;

While as I gaze each well-known feature seems

To stir with life, and realise my dreams

That paint thee seated on the Scottish throne,

With all the blaze of beauty round thee thrown;

Then see thee passing from thy dungeon cell,

And hear thy parting sigh—thy last farewell.