W-r.STMIXSTER ABBEY. 211
Subdued to peace, doth kiss his brother s cheek, And share his pillow, pleased to strive no more. Yes, side by side they sleep, whose warring word Convulsed the nations, and old ocean stirred ; Slight seem the feuds that moved the crowd of yore,
To him who now in musing reverie bends, Where Pitt and Fox dream on, those death-cemented friends.
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 ?
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