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he was beheaded on
The songs she loved in early years—the songs
Navarre, a country
were sung by lying to the south
east of Biscay in gallant Chatelar;
Chatelar, Pierre de 70 They won her thoughts from bigot zeal and French nobleman fierce domestic broils :
who followed Mary But hark! the tramp of armed men! the came deeply in love Douglas * battle-cry !
with her, and acted
so indiscreetly that They come !-they come !—and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's * hollow eye!
a charge of treason And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and
Douglas, James Dougtears and words are vain
las, Earl of Morton, The ruffian steel is in his heart—the faithful was a ieading accomRizzio's slain !
plice in the murder 75 Then Mary Stuart dashed aside the tears that he became Regent, trickling fell :
and was beheaded in
1581, as being found “Now for my father's arm !” she said ; “my accessory to the murwoman's heart farewell !”
der of Darnley. Ruthven (Riven), a Scotch lord, who,
with Lord Lindsay, The scene was changed. It was a lake with
conveyed Mary to one small lonely isle ;
Lochleven Castle in And there, within the prison-walls of its baro- 1567.
nial pile, Stern men stood menacing * their queen, till Menacing, threatenshe should stoop to sign .
ing. 80 The traitorous scroll* that snatched the crown Traitorous scroll, the from her ancestral line.
nobles required Mary,
on pain of death, to “My lords !-my lords !" the captive said, sign a document' rewere I but once more free,
signing the crown in With ten good knights on yonder shore to aid favour of her son,
my cause and me,
breeze that blows,
Remorseless, pitiless. 85 A red spot burned upon her cheek—streamed
her rich tresses down,
A royal host, Mary
from banner bore, And the faithful of the land stood round their She was totally de
feated at Langside, smiling Queen once more.
round her 6000 men,
She stayed her steed upon a hill-she saw
them marching byShe heard their shouts—she read success in 90
every flashing eye. Tumult
, uproar, great The tumult * of the strife begins-it roars-it
dies away ;
the field to
beth. She was beheaded at Fotherin
And Mary's troops and banners now, and
courtiers—where are they ?
less and undone ;-
guilt has won !Away. With a few Away !* away ! thy gallant steed must act no 95 followers Mary filed
Taggard's * part; Dundrennan Abbey, Yet vain his speed—for thou dost bear the sixty miles off, where
arrow in thy heart ! she spent her last night in Scotland. Laggard, one
The scene was changed. Beside the block * a
sullen headsman stood, Beside the block, Mary was kept prisoner for And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that eighteen years
soon must drip with blood. England by Eliza
With slow and steady step there came a Lady
through the hall, gay Castle, Northamp. And breathless silence chained the lips and 100 tonshire,7th February
touched the hearts of all. 1587
I knew that queenly form again, though
blighted * was its bloom ;
for the tomb !
once so brightly shone ;
of living gold !
I knew that bounding grace of step-that Symmetry, regulasymmetry * of mould !
Even now I see her far away, in that calm con-
Even now I see her bursting forth upon the Firmament, the
[born! triple throne. A new star in the firmament,* to light and glory 110 her Queen of Scotland Alas ! the change !-she placed her foot upon and England, and on a triple throne, * his death she became And on the scaffold now she stands—beside Queen of France as
the block-alone !
The little dog that licks her hand, the last of.
all the crowd
and round her footsteps bowed !
soul is passed away!
piece of clay!
mournfully. gurgles o'er, Laps * the warm blood that trickling runs un- Laps, drinks or licks heeded to the floor !
up with the tongue. The blood of beauty, wealth, and power—the
heart-blood of a Queen,
earth hath seen,
of a throne !
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.—Pope.
Vital, that which
pleasure. And let me languish into life !
Sirife, struggling for
takes up one's entire attention,
Recedes, fades from sight, retires.
The world recedes ! * it disappears !
With sounds seraphic * ring !
O Death! where is thy sting ?
Seraphic, angelic, pure, sublime.
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.* -T. Hoodo THOMAS Hoon (1798-1845) was born in London. He was a great humourist and poet. Apprenticed to an engraver in his youth, he soon left business for literature, and delighted the world for many years with his wonderful humour and wit. He was buried at Kensal Green, with the epitaph chosen by himself, “He sang the Song of the Shirt.”—Other works : Whims and Oddities, The Bridge of Sighs, The Dream of Eugene Aram, &c.
WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red, Unwomanly, not Et A woman sat, in unwomanly* rags, for a woman.
Plying * hér needle and thread
5 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Dolorous pitch, sor- And still with a voice of dolorous pitch rowful tone.
the “Song of the Shirt !”
" Work! work ! work!
It's oh to be a slave Turk, an inhabitant Along with the barbarous Turk,* of Turkey, where the Where woman has never a soul to save, 15 badly
If this is Christian work ! treated.
Till the eye Gusset, an angular
are heavy and dim !
20 piece of cloth insert- Seam, and gusset,* and band, ed in a garment to Band, and gusset, and seam, strengthen some part of it.
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew, &c. Her
And sew * them on in a dream ! mind is so much engaged with her busi
“O Men, with Sisters dear! ness, that even in her
25 sleep she fancies she
O Men, with Mothers and Wives ! is still at work.
It is not linen you're wearing out,
30 Shroud, a winding
Sewing at once, with a double thread, sheet for dead bodies.
A Shroud * as well as a Shirt.
*The Song of the Shirt. This beautiful poem appeared first in the Christmas number of Punch for 1843 ; it ran like wildfire, and caused a great sensation throughout the country. It served to draw attention to the needlewomen, and it made Hood famous.
Phantom, ghost, apparition.
Never flags, never stops.
Blank, bare, empty.
Chime to chime, from one hour to another.
* But why do I talk of Death ?
That phantom * of grisly bone,
It seems so like my own
Because of the fasts I keep;
And flesh and blood so cheap !
My labour never flags;
A crust of bread—and rags.
A table,-a broken chair,-
For sometimes falling there !
The brooding swallows cling,
And twit * me with the Spring.
" Oh but to breathe the breath
With the sky above my head,
To feel as I used to feel,
And the walk that costs a meal!
A respite * however brief !
But only time for Grief !
Eaves, the parts of
A respite, &c., & rest