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No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister

dim,

The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' 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 reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at

vesper prayers,

That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than theirs ;

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And little even the loveliest 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 had passed a storm of years,

Strong in himself and children, stands the first among his peers;

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

And walked ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have fail'd;

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 Condé, 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 who 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 lighted up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek,

They sparkle on her open brow, and high-soul'd joy bespeak.

Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours,

She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers?

PART II.

It was a labouring 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-receding 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 hush'd repose, and the splendours 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 seem'd to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek-her smile was sadder now,

The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her

brow;

And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field; The Stuart sceptre well she sway'd, but the sword she could not wield.

She thought of all her blighted hopes-the dreams of youth's brief day,

And summon'd Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play

The songs she lov'd in early years-the songs of gay

Navarre,

The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar:

They half beguil'd her of her cares, they sooth'd her into smiles,

They won her thought from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils.

But hark! the tramp of armèd 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 brush'd 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 snatch'd 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 remorse

less foes!"

A red spot burn'd upon her cheek-stream'd her rich tresses down,

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

PART III.

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 courtierswhere are they?

Scatter'd and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone

O God! to see what she has lost, and think 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. 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 chain'd 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!

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