قراءة كتاب The Hubble-Shue
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
first number, that this poetical banquet has been prepared "by the author of the Hubble-Shue."
Where there is such a variety of sweets, selection is difficult, but we will do our best. There is one charming little song entitled "The Basket of Flowers," in which the sentiment and versification are alike admirable. There is a touching simplicity about it, with which the reader will doubtlessly be enraptured:—
Profusely gay, they catch the eye,
This one I chuse and most admire.
&c.
Such as the rose may Mary be,
When youth is fled. She's good to me.
&c.
Stranger I came without a name,
All these fine flowers she brought to me.
&c.
Softly, my lyre—that silken string,
Tuned to a gift so sweet to sing.
&c.
The blushing rose, and jessamine,
Sweet is that air—sweet lyre again.
&c.
Than blushing rose or jessamine,
Dearer to me in friendship's name.
&c.
Softly, my lyre, that trembling string,
Friendship so new, a fleeting thing!
&c.
No, strike! nor tremble, tremble so,
Friendship and virtue thou art one.
Friendship and virtue, &c.
The lamentable fate of the hapless Mary has been made the subject of a series of fragments, from which it would be unpardonable not to give a specimen. Can there be any thing more affecting than the following?
—Had she, as thou! Lucretia—durst—
But here the soul! superior by her faith,
Triumph'd—and for her country and her son,
Endured, in misery, all her cruel fate,
Accursed marriage!—deep laid Malice. O Mary!
Their vill'nous designs—were here accomplish'd,—
And stabb'd thy fame! But time shall bring to light
Their darkest deeds—and heal thy wounded name.
—Avaunt thou!—Murray, Morton, Bothwell,
And thou Elizabeth, great as a Queen,
But deadly in thy hate—as desperate by thy love.
Mary and Essex, victims of thy ire,
Bright stars that fell by thy malignant breath,
Yet, yet I weep for thee—thy woman's weakness,
And thy jealous mind,—
O they were punishment enough—forgive,
Forgive, O mighty God! forgive.
Many have written on this subject, but certainly none more effectively than Miss Carstairs, although passages do occur in the magnificent historical poem of Mary Queen of Scots, by Margaretta Wedderburn, [3] which may admit of a comparison. We may instance that in which the unfortunate Mary is made to say,
In history, my foul catastrophe
Is told by Dr Robertson, and others,
In colours lively, delicate, and just.
As every one must be familiar with a poem, which will be read when Shakespeare and Byron are not, a simple reference only is necessary. One of the first poets of the age has more recently enriched the pages of the New Scots Magazine with verses on the same subject, yet we must confess, in our humble estimation, that the Carstairs remains inviolate—virgo intacta. That our readers, however, may judge for themselves, we subjoin a stanza or two.
I dwell upon a mournful theme; however dark it be,
It is no vague, no empty dream, that visions such to me: