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 staid 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 strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone. O Heaven! to think what she has lost, and see 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. Besides the block a sullen headsman stood, And gleamed 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 the cross-the cross she lov'd so well! I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom I saw that grief 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, that feeble now, once thrilled through 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 chaunt 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 is pass'd ss'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 on the floor! The blood of beauty, wealth, and power-the heartblood 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 splendours of a throne! D D'Assas. A BALLAD OF FRANCE. "A moi, Auvergne! ces sont les ennemis!" Alone through gloomy forest-shades Yet on his vigil's midnight round, Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? His father's hall, his mother's bower, Wandering from battles lost and won, Hush! hark! did stealing steps go by ? Hark, yet again! and from his hand "Silence!" in undertones they cry"No whisper-not a breath! The sound that warns thy comrades nigh Shall sentence thee to death." Still, at the bayonet's point he stood, The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call- The Death of Keeldar. Up rose the sun o'er moor and mead; Man, horse, or hound, of higher fame, And right dear friends were they. The chase engrossed their joys and woesTogether with the dawn they rose Together shared the noon's repose By fountain or by stream, Where each as wildering fancy led Now is the thrilling moment near, His signs the hunters know:- The archer strings his bow. The game's a-foot!-halloo! halloo ! That e'er it left the string! Has dewed the grey goose wing. The noble hound-he dies, he dies, |