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L. 7. G. You turn to view the painted side of
royalty, And cover all the cares that lurk beneath. Is it, to be a queen, to sit aloft, In solemn, dull, uncomfortable state, The flatter'd idol of a servile court? Is it to draw a pompous train along, A pageant, for the wondring crowd to gaze at? “ Is it, in wantonness of pow'r to reign, « And make the world subservient to my pleasure. “ Is it not rather, to be greatly wretched, " To watch, to toil, to take a sacred charge, “ To bend each day before high Heav'n, and own, “ This people hast thou trusted to my hand, “ And at my hand, I know, thou shalt require 'em?" Alas, Northumberland !-My father!-Is it not To live a life of care, and when I die, Have more to answer for before my judge,
of my subjects ? “ D. Suff. Ev'ry state, « Allotted to the race of man below, 6. Is, in proportion, doomid to taste some sorrow, “ Nor is the golden wreath on a king's brow " Exempt from care ; and yet, who would not bear it? “.. Think on the monarchs of our royal race, s. They liv'd not for themselves : how many blessings, “ How many lifted hands shall pay thy toil, " If for thy people's good thou happ'ly borrow " Some portion from the hours of rest, and wake “ To give the world repoșe !"
Suff. Behold, we stand upon the brink of ruin, And only thou canst save us. Persecution, That fiend of Rome and hell, prepares her tortures ; See where she comes in Mary's priestly train ! Still wo't thou doubt? till thou behold her stalk, Red with the blood of martyrs, and wide wasting O'er England's bosom? “ All the mourning year « Our towns shall glow with unextinguish'd fires ; “ Our youth on racks shall stretch their crackling
Guil. Amidst that ruin,
L. 7. G. Oh! spare the dreadful image!
Guil. Oh! wou'd the misery be bounded there, My life were little; but the rage of Rome. Demands whole hecatombs, a land of victims. “ With superstition comes that other fiend, " That bane of peace, of arts and virtue, tyranny ; " That foe of justice, scorner of all law; « That beast, which thinks mankind were born for
one, " And made by Heav'n to be a monster's prey ; " That heaviest curse of groaning nation's tyranny.' Mary shall, by her kindred Spain, be taught
To bend our necks beneath a brazen yoke,
L. 7. G. Avert that judgment, Heav'n!
Guil. Oh, my queen! Does not thy great, thy generous heart relent, To think this land, for liberty so fam'd, Shall have her tow'ry front at once laid low, And robb’d of all its glory? “ Oh! my country! " Oh! fairest Albion, empress of the deep, " How have thy noblest sons, with stubborn valour, “ Stood to the last, dy'd many a field in blood, " In dear defence of birth-right and their laws ! “ And shall those hands which fought the cause of
freedom, “ Be manacled in base unworthy bonds : “ Be tamely yielded up, the spoil, the slaves “ Of hair-brain'd zeal, and cruel coward priests ?" L. 7. G. Yes, my lov'd lord, my soul is mov'd like
To guide me with their wisdoms, and point out
North. The judges all attend, and will at leisure Resolve you ev'ry scruple.
L. 7. G. They expound; But where are those, my lord, that make the law? Where are the ancient honours of the realm, The nobles, with the mitred fathers join'd? The wealthy commons solemnly assembled ? Where is that voice of a consenting people, To pledge the universal faith with mine, And call me justly queen ?
“ North. Nor shall that long “ Be wanting to your wish. The lords and commons « Shall, at your royal bidding, soon assemble, " And with united homage own your title. " Delay not then to meet the general wish, “ But be our queen, be England's better angel. " Nor let mistaken piety betray you “ To join with cruel Mary in our ruin: “ Her bloody faith commands her to destroy, " And yours forbids to save.”
Guil. Our foes, already High in their hopes, devote us all to death: " The dronish monks, the scorn and shame of man
hood, “ Rouse and prepare once more to take possession, “ To nestle in their ancient hives again : " Again they furbish up their holy trumpery, “ Relicks and wooden wonder-working saints,
" Whole loads of lumber and religious rubbish,
North. Save your friends!
L. J. G. Take me, crown me,
- Guil. Wake ev'ry tuneful instrument to tell it,