don-Heavens! what majesty was in his port; his shape was symmetry, and his countenance manly and open as the face of day.-Upon his knees he came to greet his queen; but as he knelt, such grace was in his motion, that had Apollo's self been there, the god had been a Gordon. Must I note it down?-accursed moment! yes; Mary gazed upon him, looked upon young Gordon,* and with such a glance as spoke inter John Gordon, the Earl of Huntley's son, was esteemed the handsomest youth in Scotland; and it is recorded, that he was as accomplished in mind as he was perfect in symmetry of form. He fell passionately in love with Mary, and it is pretty obvious from history, that she was not blind to his perfections. The two families of Huntley and Hamilton were consequently inveterate foes, as the two young heirs to the titles both aspired to ally themselves to the queen by the bond of marriage. The intrigues of the court at length precipitated the unfortunate young Gordon into the most daring actions; and having recourse to arms, he was taken prisoner, when Mary was by compulsion obliged to affix her sign manual to the warrant for his execution; and, that it might appear she had never felt a passion for Gordon, his enemies, who had every ascendancy over the unfortunate Mary, forced her to be personally present at the execution: in order to which, she was stationed at a balcony, commanding a view of the horrid scene. The lovely John Gordon, after protesting his unalterable love, and extolling the beauty of Mary, addressed himself to her from the scaffold, saying, that she was the most lovely but cruel of her sex ; when, resigning himself to his fate, the nal admiration of his beauty; the glow that robed her cheek came and returned with such precipitancy, that all who saw her with the eyes of Chatelar must have confessed her soul was fraught with love-yes; D'Anville confessed it, and his bleeding heart sickened with Chatelar's at the contending agonies which wrung it. But if Mary loved, Gordon became her lover also; his eyes, each gesture of his countenance, the very motion of his body spoke his soul; 'twas fettered in the rosy chains of love, and illumined with his poignant dart.- -Detested rival! unhappy Chatelar, when will thine anguished bosom find repose-when will thine eye-lids close in tranquil sleep?-never, oh! never, never!peace was ne'er made for Chatelar; sleep hath forsaken him; D'Anville too will rest no more, and Arran's Earl must share with me the bitterness of conflicting jealousy-we are slaves; 'tis Gordon lords it o'er us-he is the chosen son of light, and we must wander in chaotic gloom.Oh! for Medusa's serpent-locks, the eye of basilisk, or the thunderbolt of Jove, that I might hurl destruction on him :-Revenge lights up my executioner severed his head from his body, while Mary, overcome by the poignancy of feelings arising from the struggles of pity and love, fell lifeless into the arms of her attendants, who bore her from the shocking sight. soul; furies are in my heart; curses are on my tongue; rage is in my soul, and death within my grasp; not all the host of hell is half so terrible as thou, O Gordon ! * * * * * Peace, peace, fell furies; down accursed, malign revenge; for not unto thee, Oh Gordon! should be attributed the blame.-Thou didst not mould thyself in manly majesty, or give to every action 'witching grace: -No, no; nature and love conjoined to frame thy matchless symmetry; and beauty hath given thee all it could bestow-yes: for thou hast Mary's heart, and having that, not Paris, with his boasted Helen, was so doubly bless'd; for thou art master of the goddess, not her gift. Hark! 'twas D'Anville's bitter groan disturbed the solemn stillness of the hour; for Chatelar is not alone condemned.- -Gratitude, I thank thee; for thou hast infused a balm within the bitter draught that curdled all within me--yes: the memory of my benefactor's pangs have tranquilized my mind.-D'Anville is unfortunate, and Chatelar owes D'Anville gratitude.-Beneficent emanation of the Divinity! thou comest to my woe-worn heart like dew-drops from on high, that feed the parched-up lily of the field; or, like the melody of that sweet songster of the night, which, wafted on the stilly breeze of spring, affords a melancholy comfort to the mother weep ing the loss of her departed babe.-Not unto these alone may'st thou compare heart-thrilling gratitude; for thou art kindred to God, and dwellest with the angelic host. Still to court peace, and lull my senses for a transitory period, I will invoke my muse; for poetry can sooth the saddened breast, and harmonize the contending feelings; it is the music of the mind, the language of the soul, which played upon, yields, like the silv'ry-corded lute, when touched by Mary's 'witching finger, a harmony divine. BALLAD TO MY QUEEN. AH! say not winter's winds blow bleak, Nor tax the snow and drifting rain; They'll blight the roses of the cheek, But never give the bosom pain. Ah! blame not age's icy dart, For nought so marble-cold can be As Mary's unrelenting heart, For she can pity all but me. Ah! curse not Fortune's wav'ring mind, Oh Arran! thou hast pow'r and state Yet, though eclips'd by state and pow'r, Nor these or beauty can controul Those flames which ev'ry sense devour, That passion which enslaves my soul. |