Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/208

    And here lies Richard Busby, not with frown,
        As when his little realm he ruled severe,
    Nor to the sceptred Stuart bowed him down,
        But held his upright course, with brow severe;
        Still bears his hand the pen and classic page,
        While the sunk features marked by furrowing age,
    And upraised eye, with supplicating fear,
        Seem to implore that pity in his woe,
Which to the erring child, perchance, he failed to show.

    Mary of Scotland hath her monument
        Fast by that mightier queen of kindred line,
    By whom her soul was to its Maker sent,
        Ere Nature warned her to His bar divine;
        It is a fearful thing, thus side by side
        To see the murderer and the murdered bide,
    And of the scaffold think, and strange decline
        That wrung the Tudor's weary breath away,
And of the strict account at the great reckoning day.

    Seek ye the chapel of yon monarch proud,
        Who rests so gorgeous mid the princely train?
    And sleeps he sweeter than the humbler crowd,
        Unmarked by costly arch or sculptured fane?
        I've seen the turf-mound of the village hind,
        Where all unsheltered from the wintry wind,
    Sprang one lone flower of deep and deathless stain;—
        That simple faith which bides the shock of doom,
When bursts the visioned pomp that decked the satrap's tomb.