"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 stayed 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 has 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. H. G. BELL.

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.

WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd 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 wither'd 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 journey'd this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the maid of the inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd 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 listen'd 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

66

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 shiver'd with cold as she went.

O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, Where the abbey rose dim on the sight,

Through the gateway she enter'd-she felt not afraid; Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gather'd the bough;

When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear-
She paused, and she listen'd, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew--the hoarse ivy shook over her head— She listen'd-nought else could she hear;

The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,

She crept to conceal herself there;

That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary could feel her heart's blood curdle cold;
Again the rough wind hurried by—

It blew off the hat of the one; and, behold!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd;
She fell-and expected to die.

6

Plague the hat!" he exclaims. Nay, come on and fast hide

"The dead body," his comrade replies.

She beholds them in safety pass on by her side;
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,
And fast through the abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,
She cast her eyes horribly round ;

Her limbs could support their faint burden no more,
But, exhausted and breathless, she sunk on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view;
Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

For, O God! what cold horror thrill'd through her heart,
When the name of her Richard she knew.

Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by,
His gibbet is now to be seen;

Not far from the road it engages the eye,

The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.

SOUTHEY,

MESSIAH-A SACRED ECLOGUE.

YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.