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.
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