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The songs she loved in early years-the songs of gay Navarre,
The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar:
They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles,
They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils :-
But hark! the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' battle-cry!
They come-they come and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye!
And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words
are vain,

The ruffian steel is in his heart-the faithful Rizzio's slain!

Then Mary Stuart brush'd aside the tears that trickling fell: "Now for my father's arm!" she said; 66 my woman's heart farewell!"

The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle, And there, within the prison-walls of its baronial pile,

Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign The traitorous scroll that snatch'd the crown from her ancestral

line:

"My lords, my lords!" the captive said, "were I but once more free,

With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my cause and me,
That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows,
And once more reign a Stuart queen o'er my remorseless foes!"
A red spot burn'd upon her cheek-stream'd her rich tresses down,
She wrote the words-she stood erect-a queen without a crown!

The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore,
And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen once

more ;

She staid her steed upon a hill-she saw them marching by-
She heard their shouts she read success in every flashing eye;—
The tumult of the strife begins-it roars-
it dies away;
And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers-where are they?
Scatter'd and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone-
O God! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won!
Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part;
Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart.

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood, And gleam'd the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with · blood.

With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall, And breathless silence chain'd the lips, and touch'd the hearts of all;

Rich were the sable robes she wore-her white veil round her fell-
And from her neck there hung the cross-the cross she loved so well!
I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom-
I saw that grief had deck'd it out-an offering for the tomb!
I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone-
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every tone-
I knew the ringlets, almost grey, once threads of living gold-
I knew that bounding grace of step-that symmetry of mould !
Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle,
I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile-
Even now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal morn,
A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!
Alas! the change! she placed her foot upon a triple throne,
And on the scaffold now she stands-beside the block, alone!
The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd
Who sunn'd themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps
bow'd!

Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul is pass'd away;
The bright-the beautiful-is now a bleeding piece of clay!
The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it gurgles o'er,

Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor! The blood of beauty, wealth, and power-the heart-blood of a queen

The noblest of the Stuart race-the fairest earth hath seen-
Lapp'd by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone;
Then weigh against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne !

THE MARRIAGE OF YOUNG KENNEDY AND MATILDA.

Hogg.

Though grateful the hope to the death-bed that flies,
That lovers and friends o'er our ashes will weep,

The soul, when released from her lingering ties,

In secret may see if their sorrows are deep.

Who wept for the worthy Macdougal ?—Not one!
His darling Matilda, who, two months agone,

Would have mourned for her father in sorrow extreme,
Indulged in a painful, delectable dream.

But why do the matrons, while dressing the dead,
Sit silent, and look as if something they knew?
Why gaze on the features? Why move they the head,
And point at the bosom so dappled and blue ?

Say, was there foul play? Then, why sleeps the red thunder?
Ah! hold, for suspicion stands silent with wonder.

The body's entombed, and the green turf laid over;
Matilda is wed to her dark Highland lover.

Yes, the new moon that stooped over green Aberfoyle,
And shed her light dews on a father's new grave,
Beheld, in her wane, the gay wedding turmoil,
And lighted the bride to her chamber at eve.
Blue, blue was the heaven; and, o'er the wide scene,
A vapoury silver veil floated serene,

A fairy perspective, that bore from the eye,
Wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie.

The scene was so still, it was all like a vision ;

The lamp of the moon seemed as fading for ever. 'Twas awfully soft, without shade or elision;

And nothing was heard but the rush of the river.
But why won't the bride-maidens walk on the lea,
Nor lovers steal out to the sycamore tree?

Why turn to the hall with those looks of confusion?
There's nothing abroad!-'tis a dream!-a delusion!
But why do the horses snort over their food,
And cling to the manger in seeming dismay?
What scares the old owlet afar to the wood ?

Why screams the blue heron, as hastening away?
Say, why is the dog hid so deep in his cover?

Each window barred up, and the curtain drawn over ?
Each white maiden-bosom still heaving so high,

And fixed on another each fear-speaking eye?

'Tis all an illusion; the lamp let us trim;

Come, rouse thee, old minstrel, to strains of renown;

The old cup is empty, fill round to the brim,

And drink the young pair to their chamber just gone.
Ha! why is the cup from the lip ta'en away?
Why fixed every form like a statue of clay?
Say, whence is that noise and that horrible clamour!
Oh, heavens! it comes from the marriage bedchamber.
Oh, haste thee, Strath-Allan, Glen-Ogle, away,
These outcries betoken wild horror and wo;
The dull ear of midnight is stunned with dismay;
Glen-Ogle! Strath-Allan! fly swift as the roe.

Mid darkness and death, on eternity's brim,
You stood with Macdonald and Archibald the grim ;
Then why do ye hesitate? why do ye stand
With claymore unsheathed, and red taper in hand?

The tumult is o'er; not a murmur nor groan;
What footsteps so madly pace through the saloon?
'Tis Kennedy, naked and ghastly alone,

Who hies him away by the light of the moon.
All prostrate and bleeding, Matilda they found,
The threshold her pillow, her couch the cold ground;
Her features distorted, her colour the clay,

Her feelings, her voice, and her reason away.

Ere morn they returned; but how well had they never!
They brought with them horror too deep to sustain ;
Returned but to chasten, and vanish for ever,
To harrow the bosom and fever the brain.
List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty;—
Oh, sweet is the path of devotion and duty!—
When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death,
And think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith.

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.-Southey.

Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express ?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek,'
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her
poor withered bosom, half bare, and her cheek

Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day)

Poor Mary the maniac hath been;

The traveller remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,
As she welcomed them in with a smile;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night,
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life;

But Richard was idle and worthless; and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say,
That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listened to hear the wind roar.

""Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fire-side, To hear the wind whistle without."

"What a night for the Abbey !" his comrade replied; "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, Who should wander the ruins about.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear, Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear, For this wind might awaken the dead." "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,

"That Mary would venture there now." "Then wager, and lose," with a sneer he replied, “I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow."

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?” His companion exclaimed with a smile;

"I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough

From the alder that grows in the aisle."

With fearless good humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent;

The night it was gloomy, the wind it was high;
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.

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