They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle' o'er her cheek, 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, The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne; The scene! was changed. It was an evel of raw and surly mood, Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing' with the winds, The weight of royalty' had pressed too heavy on her brow; The Stuart sceptrel 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 minstrell play 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; well!" 66 'my woman's heart' fare 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 Il but once more free, With ten good knights! on yonder shore, to aid my cause and me, She wrote the words-she stood erect-a queen' without a crown! The scene was changed. A royal host' a royal banner' bore, more: She staid her steed' upon a hill-she saw them' marching by- The scene was changed. Beside the block! a sullen headsman! stood, And gleamed the broad axe' in his hand, that soon' must drip in blood. With slow and steady step! there came a lady' through the hall, And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched 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 decked it out-an offering! for the tomb! knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone- Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul' is passed away; Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor! H. G. BELL. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. [THOMAS GRAY, a celebrated English poet, was born in London in 1716, and died in 1771. His life was spent chiefly at the University of Cambridge, in which College he held the situation of Professor of modern history. As a poet he is energetic and full of classic grace, and his lyrics, though few, have been rarely, if ever, surpassed. His principal odes are "The Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard," "The Progress of Poesy," and "The Ode on Eton College."] THE curfew' tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd' winds' slowly! o'er the lea, Now fades' the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save, that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet' sleep. The breezy call! of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, No morel shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them' no more the blazing hearth' shall burn, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss! to share. Oft! did the harvest' to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How' bowed the woods' beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition' mock their useful toil, Their homely joys' and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, Await, alike, the inevitable hour: The paths of glory' lead--but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb' no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem' swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion' call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice' provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull' cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot' is laid Some heart! once pregnant with celestial fire; But Knowledge' to their eyes! her ample page, Full many a gem! of purest ray serene The dark' unfathomed caves of ocean' bear; Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The applause of listening senates' to command, Their lot' forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined!-Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth' to hide, With incense' kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife- They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones, from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpturel decked, Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, 66 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness! a prey, On some fond breast! the parting soul relies, 66 Some kindred spirit' shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain' may say- There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots! so high, Muttering his wayward fancies! he would rove; Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn' I missed him' on the accustomed hill, Along the heath' and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood' was he: "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow' through the church-way path we saw him borne:Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone! beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, Large' was his bounty, and his soul' sincere; He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No further! seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties' from their dread abode, (There they alike' in trembling hopel repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. GRAY. |