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MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds,
The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow,—
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
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
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,
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
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,-
Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part—
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,—
-Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul is passed away!
The noblest of the Stuart race-the fairest earth has seen,-
HEY are sleeping, softly sleeping,
And the Rappahannock gleams;
And the fair magnolia blooms:
O'er our unmarked soldiers' tombs.
Where the tropic wind is breathing,
O'er the sunny "land of flowers,"
Heeding not the orphan's moan,
Far from loving ones and home.
Unwatched, not unwept, they slumber,-
For the forms that ne'er return?
Where the glad Rhine flashes bright,
There are lonely hearts to-night.
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.-FRANCIS MAHONEY.
HERE'S a story that's told of a Gypsy who dwelt
And her robe was embroidered with stars, and her belt
And she lived in the days when our Lord was a child,
When he fled from his foes-when, to Egypt exiled,
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.
This Egyptian held converse with magic, methinks,
For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx
She was pensive and lone, and never was seen
And there came an old man from the desert one day,
And a child on her bosom reclined-the way
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,
Then her guests from the glare of the noonday she led
Where she spread them a banquet of fruits, and a shed
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
When the Gypsy anon in her Ethiop hand
Oh, 'twas fearful to see how the features she scanned