MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 135 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 chained 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 a cross-the cross she lov'd 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 bowed! 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! 136 MY OWN FIRESIDE. The blood of beauty, wealth and power-the heart-blood of a queen The noblest of the Cuart race-the fairest earth hath seenLapp'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. MY OWN FIRESIDE. LET others seek for empty joys, 'Twixt book and lute the hours divide, My own Fireside! Those simple words And fill with tears of joy mine eyes! A gentle form is near me now; A small white hand is clasped in mine; And ask what joys can equal thine ! What care I for the sullen roar Of winds without that ravage earth? MY OWN FIRESIDE To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth: My refuge ever from the storm Of this world's passion, strife, and care; Thy precincts are a charmed ring, Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; To thee--my own Fireside! Shrine of my household deities! Fair scene of home's unsullied joys! To thee my burden'd spirit flies, When fortune frowns, or care annoys; Thine is the bliss that never cloys, The smile whose truth hath oft been tried : What, then, are this world's tinsel toys, Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, 137 A. A. Watts. 138 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. O turning one down with the plough in April, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, To spare thee now is past my power, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter biting north Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod, or stane, There in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, NOTHING TO WEAR. By love's simplicity betray'd, Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but heaven, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom. 139 Burns. NOTHING TO WEAR. (ABRIDGED.) (An episode of fashionable life.) WELL, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsy and gained her, At least in the property, and the best right And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball- 1 considered it only my duty to call, |