[2] Afterwards a Writer to the Signet--better known as the great Peat Moss Philosopher.
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,