QUEEN MARY'S COMPLAINT. Helen Maria Williams Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Williams, Helen Maria, 1759-1827. Poems on various subjects: with introductory remarks on the present state of science and literature in France. London G. and W. B. Whittaker 1823 pp. [107]-110.

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QUEEN MARY'S COMPLAINT . I. PALE moon ! thy mild benignant light May glad some other captive's sight ; Bright'ning the gloomy objects nigh , Thy beams a lenient thought supply : But , O , pale moon ! what ray of thine Can soothe a misery like mine , Chase the sad image of the past , And woes for ever doom'd to last ? II . Where are the years with pleasure gay ? How bright their course ! how short their stay ! Where are the crowns , that round my head A double glory vainly spread ? Where are the beauties wont to move , The grace , converting awe to love ? Alas ! had fate design'd to bless , Its equal hand had giv'n me less ! III . Why did the regal garb array A breast that tender passions sway ? A soul of unsuspicious frame , Which leans with faith on friendship's name ? Ye vanish'd hopes ! ye broken ties ! By perfidy , in friendship's guise , This breast was injur'd , lost , betray'd — Where , where shall MARY look for aid ? IV . How could I hope redress to find , Stern rival ! from thy envious mind ? How could I e'er thy words believe ? O ever practised to deceive ! Thy wiles abhorr'd shall please alone Cold bosoms , selfish as thy own ; While ages hence indignant hear The horrors of my fate severe . V. Have not thy unrelenting hands Torn nature's most endearing bands ? Whate'er I hop'd from woman's name , The ties of blood , the stranger's claim ! A sister-queen's despairing breast On thee securely lean'd for rest ; On thee ! from whom that breast has bled With sharper ills than those I fled . VI . O , skill'd in every baser art ! Tyrant ! to this unguarded heart No guilt so black as thine belongs , Which loads my length'ning years with wrongs . Strike , then , at once , insatiate foe , The long premeditated blow ! So shall thy jealous terrors cease , And MARY'S harass'd soul have peace .