it not! Hear what He writeth there:-Thy race is run; thy years are numbered, and thy days are done: thy soul hath mounted in the scale of fate; the Lord hath weighed thee, and thou lackest weight! Now, in thy palace-porch, the spoilers stand, to seize thy sceptre, to divide thy land.'"

That night they slew him on his father's throne, the deed unnoticed, and the hand unknown :-crownless and sceptreless, Belshazzar lay-a robe of purple round a form of clay!

Baby in Church.

Aunt Nellie had fashioned a dainty thing,
Of hamburg and ribbon and lace,

And Mamma had said, as she settled it 'round
Our beautiful Baby's face,

Where the dimples play and the laughter lies
Like sunbeams hid in her violet eyes:

"If the day is pleasant and Baby is good,
She may go to church and wear her new hood."
Then Ben, aged six, began to tell,

In elder-brotherly way,

How very, very good she must be

If she went to church next day.

He told of the church, the choir and the crowd,
And the man up in front who talked so loud;
But she must not talk nor laugh nor sing,
But just sit as quiet as anything.

And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May,

When the fruit-buds burst into flowers
(There wasn't a blossom on bush or tree
So fair as this blossom of ours),
All in her white dress, dainty and new,
Our Baby sat in the family pew.

The grand, sweet music, the reverent air,
The solemn hush and the voice of prayer,

Filled all her baby soul with awe,

As she sat in her little place,

And the holy look that the angels wear
Seemed pictured upon her face.

And the sweet words uttered so long ago
Came into my mind with a rhythmic flow:
"Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven,” said He,
And I knew that He spake of such as she.
The sweet-voiced organ pealed forth again,
The collection-box came round,

And Baby dropped her penny in,

And smiled at the chinking sound.
Alone in the choir Aunt Nellie stood,
Waiting the close of the soft prelude,
To begin her solo. High and strong
She struck the first note, clear and long.
She held it, and all were charmed but one,
Who, with all the might she had,
Sprang to her little feet and cried :

"Aunt Nellie, you's being bad!"
The audience smiled, the minister coughed,
The little boys in the corner laughed,
The tenor-man shook like an aspen leaf
And hid his face in his han lkerchief.
And poor Aunt Nellie never could tell

How she finished that terrible strain,
But says that nothing on earth would tempt
Her to go through the scene again.
So, we have decided, perhaps 'tis best,
For her sake, ours, and all the rest,
That we wait, maybe for a year or two,
Ere our Baby re-enter the family pew.

Mary Queen of Scots.

I look'd far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls;

And o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping shadow passed,
And all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast.
No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim,
The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn.
And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,
In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects
please;

And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper

prayers,

That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than theirs :

And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine,
Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line:
Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight,
And as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of
Bourbon,

And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng;

:

And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to see
The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry:
But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide,
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride!
The homage of a thousand hearts—the fond, deep love of one—
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but
begun,-

They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek,
They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak:
Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant
hours,

She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers?

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its

way,

And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a Lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills, that dim and distant rise.

No marvel that the Lady wept, there was no land on earth She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her

birth:

It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends,— It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends,— The land where her dead husband slept-the land where she had known

The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne:

No marvel that the Lady wept-it was the land of France-
The chosen home of chivalry—the garden of romance!
The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her
bark;

The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark!
One gaze again-one long, last gaze,- Adieu, fair France, to

thee!

The breeze comes forth-she is alone on the unconscious sea!

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood,

And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood

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 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 of all her blighted hopes-the dreams of youth's

brief day,

And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play

The songs she loved in early years—t
-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 arméd 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 dashed aside the tears that trickling fell : "Now for my father's arm!" she said; "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 baronia. pile,

Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign

The traitorous 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 every 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!

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?

!

Scattered and strown, and flying far, defenceless and undone ;—– Alas! to think what she has lost, and all that 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 gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood.