MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds,
That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.
The touch of care had blanched her cheek, her smile was sadder

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now,

The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow,—
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field,—
The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could not
wield.

She thought on all her blighted hopes, the dreams of youth's brief day,

Then summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play
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 armèd 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 brushed aside the tears that trickling fell— "Now for my father's arm," she cried, "my woman's heart, fare

well!"

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 trait'rous scroll that snatched 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 ev'ry breeze that blows,
And once more reign a Stuart queen o'er my remorseless foes."-
A red spot burned upon her cheek, streamed her rich tresses down,
She wrote the words, she stood erect, a queen without a crown!—

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

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

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once more;

She stayed her steed upon a hill, she saw them marching by, She heard their shouts, she read success in every flashing eye;The tumult and the strife begins,-it roars,--it dies away,

And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers,-where are they?

Scattered and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone,-
O God! to think what she hath lost, and think what guilt hath

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 the sullen headsman stood,

And gleamed the broadaxe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood.

With slow and steady step there came a lady though the hall, And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched 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 decked 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 thrilled with every tone;
I knew the ringlets, almost gray, 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 sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her foot-
steps bowed!

UNMARKED HEROES.

-Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul is passed 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 has seen,-
Lapped by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone;
Then weigh, against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne!

UNMARKED HEROES.

HEY are sleeping, softly sleeping,
By the hillsides and the streams,
Where the Mississippi's leaping,

THE

And the Rappahannock gleams;
Where the tall palmetto's waving,

And the fair magnolia blooms:
Richly green the turf is glowing

O'er our unmarked soldiers' tombs.

Where the tropic wind is breathing,

O'er the sunny "land of flowers,"
Cold they lie, our wrung hearts' treasures,
Through the Summer's golden hours.
Heeding not the mother's weeping,

Heeding not the orphan's moan,
They are sleeping, calmly sleeping,

Far from loving ones and home.

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Unwatched, not unwept, they slumber,-
Ah! but where are they who mourn,
With a weary, prayerful waiting,

For the forms that ne'er return?
Where the blue Garonne is flowing,

Where the glad Rhine flashes bright,
And in cabin homes of Erin,

There are lonely hearts to-night.

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.-FRANCIS MAHONEY.

THERE

HERE'S a story that's told of a Gypsy who dwelt
In the land where the Pyramids be;

And her robe was embroidered with stars, and her belt
With devices, right wondrous to see;

And she lived in the days when our Lord was a child,
On His mother's immaculate breast;

When he fled from his foes-when, to Egypt exiled,
He went down with St. Joseph the blest.

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.

This Egyptian held converse with magic, methinks,
And the future was given to her gaze,

For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx
On her threshold kept vigil always.

She was pensive and lone, and never was seen
In the haunts of the dissolute crowd;
But communed with the ghosts of the Pharaohs, I ween,
Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud.

And there came an old man from the desert one day,
With a maid on a mule, by that road;

And a child on her bosom reclined-the way
Led them straight to the Gypsy's abode;
And they seemed to have travelled a wearisome path,
From their home, many, many a league-
From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's wrath,—
Spent with toil and o'ercome with fatigue.

And the Gypsy came forth from her dwelling, and prayed That the pilgrims would rest them awhile;

And she offered her couch to that delicate maid,

Who had come many, many a mile,

And she fondled the babe with affection's caress,
And she begged the old man would repose;
"Here, stranger," she said, "ever finds free access,
And the wanderer balm for his woes."

Then her guests from the glare of the noonday she led
To a seat in her grotto so cool;

Where she spread them a banquet of fruits, and a shed
With a manger she found for the mule.

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With the wine of the palm-tree, with the dates newly culled,

All the toil of the road she beguiled;

And with song in a language mysterious, she lulled
On her bosom the wayfaring child.

When the Gypsy anon in her Ethiop hand
Placed the infant's diminutive palm,

Oh, 'twas fearful to see how the features she scanned
Of the babe, in his slumbers so calm;