TO THE GHOST OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
FAIR, ruthless Ghost, I know you well! High poets praised you with their lays, Yet could not half your beauty tell; So, now, your loveliness dismays
My rhyme, and mocks my poor essays To hint, in words, its magic spell. Ah, witching Queen, strange woes befell The bards who served you in old days!
Sweet, ruthless Ghost, their songs of praise Like warning music with me dwell, And bid me to beware your plays With love and death—your charm repel. You smile again! that smile betrays Hearts still are playthings: Fare you well.