There her pursuers stopped at length for breath,

Sated with blood, rejoicing "at the death!"
Oh! bright reward, and noble recompense,
By Royalty conferred on Innocence.

And when the aged mother's wounded heart,
Ventured to take her stricken daughter's part,
There was the "glozing" courtier to reprove
The warm outpourings of maternal love;

To hint she might have told her child's disgrace,
In more respectful and more courtly phrase;
Expressing wonder that a theme so dear,

Should thus be forced upon a "Royal" ear.
But we are told, that Majesty at length,

To show its kindness and its sorrow's strength,
When round the Palace Martyr's dying bed

The friends were gathered, and all hope was fled-
Ev'n in that hour of misery and gloom,

Ordered "refreshments" in the dining-room!

What! did she think that, when the feeble breath

Of the beloved was fluttering in death,

The mourning relatives would drink and eat,

Like the base creatures of her courtly suite?

Did she suppose that, like her Premier, they
Would spend in feast and gluttony, the day?
What though thou gavest the viands and the wine,
The cost was England's, girl, it was not thine!

What nobler gift by heav'n was e'er bestowed Than that which lightens suffering Nature's load? In the physician gratitude may trace

The benefactor of the human race.

While med'cine's healing skill its balm imparts
To crush disease and soothe the body's smarts.
Blessed is he whose kindly art can teach
To mend the shattered constitution's breach;
Can cheat the King of Terrors of his prey,
And raise the frame triumphant o'er decay!
But words are powerless to paint the hate
Which he in honest bosoms does create,
Who, in the blackness of his coward heart,
To court intrigues perverts that noble art;
To palace sland'rers a subservient tool,
In words, a liar; in his trade, a fool!

Mark

you the supple creature how he bends,

And licks the dust before his noble friends?

Is there a victim whom they doom to die?

The court Hippocrates provides a lie :

Swears to each symptom with unblushing face,
Exhausts invention to confirm the case :

And gladly lends, foul craven-hearted knave,
The healing science to prepare a grave!

Is then this thing, whom infamy doth brand,
Is he still suffered to pollute the land?

He, with his base and falsehood blister'd tongue,
Who dared a woman's purity to wrong?
Is he among us yet, nor banished by
Indignant England's horror pregnant cry?
Yes! he still moves an actor on the scene,
The pet physician of our virgin queen !
Summoned to finger Britain's squander'd gold

Whene'er the "Lord's anointed" has a cold,

Compelled to watch with deferential bow

Each variation of her sacred brow;

And when the pampered child feels cross or ill,

To give a potion or prescribe a pill!

See with what skill she checks that prancing steed,

While trains of courtiers to her ear succeed,

Think you she sorrows o'er the slandered dead?
No, she is callous as yon coffin's lead!

The gay cortège, the ball-room's brilliant glare,
The dulcet sound of some Italian air,

These are the objects of our lady's thought,

These by the peasant's sweat and labour bought ;
Gay is her heart, when at the festive board,
Some foreign booby, or some "glozing" lord,
Skilled in all adulation's softest strains,

Her childish soul with flattery enchains.
But oh! (if justice is no empty sound,)
E'en as the revel joyously goes round,
Their victim's shade shall noiselessly arise
In its pale shroud before their shrinking eyes,
Shall mock their feastings with its death-lit glance,
Shall hush the song, and stay the witching dance!

Peace to the ashes of the blameless dead,

Light rest the green turf o'er the victim's bed;
May the bright flowers spring up yet brighter there,

And zephyrs load with fragrant sweets the air;
May the winged tribes of Nature's progeny,

Warble her dirge beneath the Scottish sky;

May the lone dove, deploring its lost mate,
And gently mourning o'er its widowed fate,
Tell near that spot her melancholy tale,
And utter plaintively her funeral wail.

But far from all the turmoils of the earth,

That noble spirit lives with kindred worth;

In the fair regions of eternal light,

Where God's own presence maketh all things bright; Where Slander comes not, Malice is unknown,

And cherubs hymn their praises round His throne.

Yes! there she finds a refuge and a rest,

Pillowed for ever upon Mercy's breast;

Tenant eternal of that blest abode,

And the accepted servant of her God!

Peace to her ashes in old Scotia laid,

Peace to the ashes of that martyr'd maid,

Who with no sin herself to be forgiv'n,

Pardoned the slanderers who gave her heav'n.

THE END.

William Stevens, Printer, Bell Yard, Temple Bar.