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.
_Stray Leaves._
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