Wherever Destiny her path may lead

Fresh springing flow'rs will bloom beneath her tread,
All Nature will rejoice, the waves be bright,
The tempest check its fury at her sight;
The sea be calm; her beauty to behold,
The Sun shall crown her with its rays of gold-
Unless he fears, should he approach her throne
Her Majesty should quite eclipse his own!”

PIERRE DE RONSARD.

AN ALLEGORY ON MARY QUEEN OF

SCOTS.

(FROM THE FRENCH).

HERE'S a bonnie wild rose on the mountain side,

ΤΗ

In the glare of noon it hath drooped and died:

Soft and still is the evening shower,

Pattering kindly on brake and bower,

But it falls too late on the perished flower.

There's a lamb lies lost at the head of the glen,
Lost and missed from shieling and pen;

The shepherd has sought it in toil and heat;
And sore he strove when he heard it bleat,
Ere he wins to the lamb, it lies dead at his feet.

The mist is gathering ghostly and chill,
And the

weary maid cometh down from the hill,

The weary maid-but she's down at last;
And she tried the door, but the door is fast;
For the sun is down, and the Curfew past.

Too late for the Rose the evening rain;
Too late the lamb for the Shepherd's pain;
Too late at her home the maiden's stroke;

Too late for the Plea when the doom hath been spoke;
Too late the Balm when the heart is broke!

PIERRE DE CHASTELARD.

ADIEU DE MARIE STUART.

"A

(FROM THE FRENCH OF BÉRANGER).

DIEU beloved France, adieu,

Thou ever will be dear to me,

Land which my happy childhood knew
I feel I die, in quitting thee.

When on my brow the lillies bright,

Before admiring throngs I wore,

*

'Twas not my state that charm'd their sight,
They loved my youthful beauty more.
Although the Scot with sombre mien,
Gives me a crown, I still repine,

I only wish'd to be a queen,

Ye sons of France, to call you mine.

Adieu beloved France, &c.

Love, glory, genius crowded round,
My youthful spirit to elate;
On Caledonia's rugged ground,

Ah! changed indeed will be my fate. E'en now terrific omens seem

To threaten ill-my heart is scared; I see, as in a hideous dream

A scaffold for my death prepared.

Adieu beloved France, &c.

France, from amid the countless fears,
The Stuart's hapless child may feel,
E'en as she now looks through her tears,
So will her glances seek thee still.
Alas! the ship too swiftly sails,

O'er me are spreading other skies,
And night with humid mantle veils
Thy fading coast from these sad eyes.

Adieu beloved France, &c.

VERSES FOR THE FÊTE OF MARY.

(FROM "LE POÈTE DE COEUR."-BÉRANGER).

WHAT? to thee Mary tune a song again?

WHAT?

No, no in truth I may not dare obey,

Nerved is my muse to try a loftier strain,

And t'wards the Court, at length she wings her way.

All patriotic notions now are hiss'd;
To reckon readily's the only thing,
An ode I'm writing to an egotist
Mary for thee no longer can I sing

They're buying pipe and lyre
'Tis then full time for me
Like others to aspire

Court Lauriat to be!

*

Thy doubts, dear Mary, tell me whence they came
That thus to change, should be thy lover's lot?
Country and honor, liberty and fame,

Are merely words-and men discount them not.
To offer flattery to the great I'm learning

And songs for thee-on them might satire fling; No, no, where'er my heart might fain be turning Mary, for thee no longer can I sing

They're buying pipe and lyre, &c.

AND

Your mother dear,

And Paris you would see,

While she weeps here?

Yet stay awhile, oh! stay,

You need not go till morning breaks,

Sleep here until the day;

'Tis better, poor Maxie,

To pause as yet;

For all at Paris they tell me,

Their God forget.

Perchance you may, my poor Marie, Your mother and your God forget."

*

*

She leaves her native home

With weeping eyes,

To Paris she has come

Oh bright surprise!

There all appears to trace,

In lines of gold her future lot;

And dazzling dreams efface

The image of her humble cot.

*

*