Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories

are!

And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

Mary Queen of Scots.

I looked far back into other years, and lo! in bright

array,

1 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 stones the creeping shadow past,

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, and the sister's 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 lovliest thought, before the Virgin's 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. Grey Montmorency, o'er whose head has pass'd a storm of years,

Strong in himself and children stands, the first among the peers.

And next the Guises, who so well fame's steepest heights assail'd,

And walked ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have failed,

And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their might;

For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light.

Here Louis, Prince of Conde, wears his all unconquered sword,

With great Coligni by his side-each name a household word!

And there walks she of Medicis that proud Italian line,

The mother of a race of kings-the haughty Catherine! The forms that follow in her train, a glorious sunshine make,

A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake;

But fairer far than all the rest, that 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 lightened up her chestnut eye, they mantled 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 shade, 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 receeding 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 splen. dours 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 bright day,

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

The songs she loved in early years-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 armed 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 brushed 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 baronial 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 tressses down

She wrote the words she stood erect-a queen without a crown.