Rich were the sable robes she wore; her white veil round her fell, And from her neck there hung a cross-the cross she loved so well! I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom Though grief and care 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, still musical, that thrilled with every tone; Could see her as in youth she looked upon her bridal morn, Now see her on the scaffold stand, beside the block, alone! Her neck is bare-the axe descends-the soul has passed away! The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay. LAST PRAYER OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. W. G. CLARKE. It was the holy twilight hour, and clouds in crimson pride, Sailed through the golden firmament, in the calm evening tide, The peasants' cheerful song was hushed, by every hill and glen, The city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men; And as night's sombre shades came down, o'er day's resplen dent eye, A faded face, from a prison cell, gazed out upon the sky; For to that face the glad bright sun of earth, for aye had set, And the last time had come to mark eve's starry coronet, CCC Oh! who can paint the bitter thoughts, that o'er her spirit stole As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep control! While, shadowed from life's vista back, thronged mid her falling tears, The phantasies of early hope, dreams of departed years. When pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flung Their rich and echoing cadences, her virgin hours ainong; When there came no shadow on her brow, no tear to dim her eye, When there frowned no cloud of sorrow, in her being's festal sky. Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early vision came, Of the trance that touched her lip with song at love's mys terious flame, When she listened to the low breathed tones of him-the idol one, Who shone in her imaginings first ray of pleasure's sun. Perchance the walk in evening hour, the impassioned kiss or vow, The warm tear on the kindling cheek, the smile upon the brow But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled, As a hue from April's pinion, o'er earth's budding bosom shed. And thus as star came after star into the boundless Heaven, Were her deep thoughts, and eloquent, in pensive numbers given, They were the offerings of a heart, where grief had long held sway, And now the night, the hour had come to give her feelings way; It was the last dim night of life; the sun had sunk to rest, And the blue twilight haze had crept o'er the far mountain's breast; And thus as in her saddened heart, the tide of love grew strong, Poured her meek quiet spirit forth, this flood of mournful song. "The shades of evening gather now o'er this mysterious earth, The viewless winds are whispering in wild capricious mirth, The gentle moon hath come to shed a flood of glory round, That, through this soft and still repose, sleeps richly on the ground, And in the free sweet gales that sweep along my prison bar Beem borne the pure deep harmonies of every kindling star. I see the blue streams glancing in the mild and chastened light, And the gem-lit fleecy clouds, that steal along the brow of night. "Oh! must I leave existence now, while life should be like spring, While joy should cheer my pilgrimage with sunbeams from his wing? Are the songs of hope forever flown? the syren voice which flung The chant of youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue? Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling streams or bird, Or the scented gales of summer, as the leaves of June are stirred? Shall the pulse of love wax fainter, and the spirit shrink from death, As the bud-like thoughts that lit my heart, fade in its chilling breath? "I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes are gone, And I turn to Thee, Redeemer! O thou blest and Holy One! Though the rose of health has vanished, though the mandate has been spoken, And one by one the golden links, of life's fond chain are broken, Yet can my spirit turn to THEE, thou chastener! and can bend In humble suppliance at thy throne, my father, and my friend! Thou, who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee, Give me the eagle's fearless wing-the dove's to mount to Thee! "I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions, and its tears, How brief the yearning ecstasies, of its young, and careless years! I give my heart to earth no more, the grave may clasp me now; The winds whose tone I loved, may play in the cypress bough! The birds, the streams, are eloquent; yet I shall pass away, And in the light of Heaven shake off, this cumbrous load of clay, I shall join the lost, the loved of earth, and meet each kindred breast,— Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest,'" A NIGHT OF TERROR.-PAUL LOUIS COURIER. I was one day traveling in Calabria; a country of people who, I believe, have no great liking to anybody, and are particularly ill-disposed towards the French. To tell you why would be a long affair. It is enough that they hate us to death, and that the unhappy being who should chance to fall into their hands would not pass his time in the most agreeable manner. I had for my companion a worthy young fellow; I do not say this to interest you, but because it is the truth. In these mountains the roads are precipices, and our horses advanced with the greatest difficulty. My comrade going first, a track which appeared to him more practicable and shorter than the regular path, led us astray. It was my fault. Ought I to have trusted to a head of twenty years? We sought our way out of the wood while it was yet light; but the more we looked for the path, the further we were off it. It was a very black night, when we came close upon a very black house. We went in, and not without suspicion. But what was to be done? There we found a whole family of charcoal-burners at table. At the first word they invited us to join them. My young man did not stop for much ceremony. In a minute or two we were eating and drinking in right earnest-he at least; for my own part I could not help glancing about at the place and the people. Our hosts, indeed, looked like charcoal-burners; but the house! you would have taken it for an arsenal. There was nothing to be seen but muskets, pistols, sabres, knives, cutlasses. Everything displeased me, and I saw that I was in no favor myself. My comrade, on the contrary, was soon one of the family. He laughed, he chatted with them; and with an imprudence which I ought to have prevented, he at once said where we came from, where we were going, and that we were Frenchmen. Think of our situation. Here we were among our mortal enemies-alone, benighted, and far from all human aid. That nothing might be omitted that could tend to our destruction, he must, forsooth, play the rich man. promising these folks to pay them well for their hospitality; and then he must prate about his portmanteau, earnestly beseeching them to take care of it, and put it at the head of his bed, for he wanted no other pillow. Ah, youth, youth! how art thou to be pitied! Cousin, they might have thought that we carried the diamonds of the crown: and yet the treasure in his portmanteau, which gave him so much anxiety, consisted only of some private letters. Supper ended, they left us. Our hosts slept below; we on the story where we had been eating. In a sort of platform raised seven or eight feet, where we were to mount by a ladder, was the bed that awaited us-a nest into which we had to introduce ourselves by jumping over barrels filled with provisions for all the year. My comrade seized upon the bed above, and was soon fast asleep, with his head upon the precious portmanteau. I was determined to keep awake, so I made a good fire, and sat myself down. The night was almost passed over tranquilly enough, and I was beginning to be comfortable, when just at the time it appeared to me that day was about to break, I heard our host and his wife talking and disputing below me; and, putting my ear into the chimney, which communicated with the lower room, I perfectly distinguished these exact words of the husband: "Well, well, let us see-must we kill them both?” To which the wife replied, "Yes!" and I heard no more. How should I tell you the rest? I could scarcely breathe; my whole body was as cold as marble; had you seen me you could not have told whether I was dead or alive. Even now, the thought of my condition is enough. We two were almost without arms; against us, were twelve or fifteen persons who had plenty of weapons. And then my comrade was overwhelmed with sleep. To call him up, to make a noise, was more than I dared; to escape alone was an impossibility. The window was not very high; but under it were two great dogs, howling like wolves. Imagine, if you can, the distress I was in. At the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed to be an age, I heard some one on the staircase, and through the chink of the door, I saw the old man with a lamp in one hand, and one of his great knives in the other. |