And fix a Pow'r unqueftion'd in your Hand,
Edward, by Will, bequeath'd his Crown to you: And the concurring Lords in Council met, Have ratify'd the Gift.
L. J. Gray. Are Crowns and Empire, The Government and Safety of Mankind, Trifles of fuch light Moment, to be left Like fome rich Toy, a Ring, or fancy'd Gem, The Pledge of parting Friends? Can Kings do thus, And give away a People for a Legacy?
North. Forgive me, Princely Lady, if my Wonder Seizes each Senfe, each Faculty of Mind,
To fee the utmost Wish the Great can form,
A Crown, thus coldly met: A Crown! which flighted, And left in Scorn by you, fhall foon be fought, And find a joyful Wearer: One, perhaps Of Blood unkindred to your Royal House, And fix its Glories in another Line.
I.. J. Gray. Where art thou now, thou Partner of my Cares?
Come to my Aid, and help to bear this Burthen: Oh! fave me from this Sorrow, this Misfortune, Which in the Shape of gorgeous Greatness comes To Crown, and make a Wretch of me for ever.
Guil. Thou weep'ft, my Queen, and hang'st thy drooping Like nodding Poppies, heavy with the Rain,
That bow their weary Necks, and bend to Earth.
See, by thy Side, thy faithful Guilford ftands, Prepar'd to keep Diftrefs and Danger from thee, To wear thy facred Caufe upon his Sword,
And War against the World in thy Defence.
North. Oh! flay this inaufpicious Stream of Tears, And chear your People with one gracious Smile. Nor comes your Fate in fuch a dreadful Form, To bid you fhun it. Turn thofe facred Eyes Da the brightest Profpect Empire fpreads before you. Methinks I fee you feated on the Throne; Beneath your Feet, the Kingdom's great Degrees In bright Confufion fhine, Mitres and Coronets, The various Ermin, and the glowing Purple ; Aflembled Senates wait with awful Dread
To firm your high Commands, and make 'em Fate.
L, J. Gray. You turn to view the painted fide of Royalty, And cover all the Cares that lurk beneath. Is it, to be a Queen, to sit aloft,
In folemn, dull, uncomfortable State, The flatter'd Idol of a fervile Court? Ms it, to draw a pompous Train along, A Pageant, for the wondring Croud to gaze at? Is it, in Wantonnef's of Pow'r to Reign, And make the World fubfervient to my Pleafure? Is it not rather, to be greatly wretched, To watch, to toil, to take a facred Charge, To bend each Day before high Heaven, and own, This People haft thou trufted to my Hand,
And at my Hand, I know, thou shalt require 'em? Alas! Northumberland!
To live a Life of Care; and when I die,
Have more to answer for before my Judge, Thai any of my Subjects?
Dutc, Suff. Ev'ry State
Allotted to the Race of Man below,
Is, in Proportion, doom'd to taste fome Sorrow. Nor is the golden Wreath on a King's Brow
Exempt from Care; and yet, Who wou'd not bear it? Think on the Monarchs of our Royal Race,
They liv'd not for themselves: How many Bleffings,-, How many lifted Hands, fhall pay thy Toil,- If for thy Peoples Good thou happ❜ly borrow Some portion from the Hours of Reft, and wake To give the World Repofe !
Suff. Behold, we stand upon the Brink of Ruin, And only thou canft fave us. Perfecution, 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 ftalk Red with the Blood of Martyrs, and wide-wasting O'er England's Bofome? All the Mourning Year Our Towns fhall glow with unextinguish'd Fires; Our Youth on Racks shall stretch their Crackling Bones Our Babes fhall fprawl on Confecrated Spears; Matrons and Husbands, with their New-born Infants, Shall burn promifcuous; a continu'd Peal
Of Lamentations, Groans and Shrieks shall found. Through all our purple Ways.
Think thou behold'st thy Guilford's Head laid low, Bloody and Pale.
L. f. Gray. Oh! fpare the Dreadful Image ! Guil. Oh! wou'd the Mifery be bounded there, My Life were little, but the Rage of Rome
Demands whole Hecatombs, a Land of Victims.
With Superflition comes that other Fiend,
That Bane of Peace, of Arts and Virtue, Tyranny; That Foe to Juftice, Scorner of all Law;
That Beaft, which thinks Mankind were born for One, And made by Heav'n to be a Monfier's Prey;
That heavieft Curfe of groaning Nations, Tyranny. Mary fhall, by her kindred Spain, be taught To bend our Necks beneath a Brazen Yoke, And Rule o'er Wretches with an Iron Sceptre. L. J. Gray. Avert that Judgment, Heaven! Whate'er thy Providence allots for me, In Mercy spare my Country.
Does not thy Great, thy Generous Heart Relent, To think this Land, for Liberty so fain'd,
Shall have her Tow'ry Front at once laid low,
And robb'd of all its Glory? Oh! my Country! Oh! Faireft Albion, Emprefs of the Deep, How have thy Nobleft Sons with ftubborn Valour Stood to the laft, dy'd many a Field in Blood,
In dear Defence of Birth-right and their Laws!
And hall thofe Hands, which fought the Cause of Freedom. Be manacl'd in bafe unworthy Bonds?
Be tamely yielded up, the Spoil, the Slaves
Of Hair-brain'd Zeal, and Cruel Coward Priefts?
L. J. Gray. Yes, my lov'd Lord, my Soul is mov'd, like
At ev'ry Danger which Invades our England
My cold Heart kindles at the great Occasion, And could be more than Man, in her Defence. But where is my Commiffion to Redress?
Or whence my Pow'r to Save? Can Edward's Will, Or Twenty met in Council, make a Queen? Can you, my Lords, give me the Pow'r to canvas A doubtful Title with King Henry's Daughters? Where are the Rev'rend Sages of the Law, To guid me with their Wifdoms, and point out The Paths which Right and Justice bid me tread? North. The Judges all attend, and will at leifure Refolve your ev'ry Scruple.
L. J. Gray. They expound;
But where are thofe, my Lord, who make the Law? Where are the Ancient Honours of the Realm, The Nobles, with the Mitre'd Fathers join'd? The Wealthy Commons folemnly Affembled? Where is that Voice of a Confenting People, To pledge the Univerfal Faith with mine, And call me juftly Queen?
Narth. Nor fhall that long
Be wanting to your Wih: The Lords and Commons Shall, at your Royal Bidding, foon 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 Dronifh Monks, the Scorn and Shame of Manhood,
Rouze and prepare once more to take Poffeffion,
« ZurückWeiter » |