And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play
The songs she loved in early years-the songs of gay Navarre,
The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar;
They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles,
They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils :—
But hark! the tramp of armed 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 dashed 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 snatched 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 remorseless foes!"
A red spot burned upon her cheek-streamed her rich tresses down,
She wrote the words-she stood erect—a queen, without a crown!
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 stayed 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 strown, and flying far, defenceless and undone,—
Alas! to think what she has lost, and all that 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 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 touched the hearts of all.
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, though feeble now, that thrilled with 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 chant her vesper hymn, I mark her holy smile, —
Even now I see her bursting forth upon the 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 sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bowed!

- Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul is passed 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 to the floor!

The blood of beauty, wealth, and power-the heart-blood of a queen-
The noblest of the Stuart race--the fairest earth has seen,
Lapped by a dog!-Go, think of it, in silence and alone; .
Then weigh, against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne!

THE FORCED RECRUIT.-(Mrs. Browning.)
By kind permission of Robert Browning, Esq.
IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him,
He died with his face to you all;

Yet bury him here where around him
You honour your bravest that fall.
Venetian, fair-featured and slender,

He lies shot to death in his youth,
With a smile on his lips over-tender
For any mere soldier's dead mouth.
No stranger, and yet not a traitor,

Though alien the cloth on his breast,
Underneath it how seldom a greater
Young heart, has a shot sent to rest!
By your enemy tortured and goaded
To march with them, stand in their file,
His musket (see) never was loaded,

He facing your guns with that smile!
As orphans yearn on to their mothers,
He yearned to your patriot bands ;-
"Let me die for our Italy, brothers,

If not in your ranks, by your hands!
"Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me
A ball in the body which may
Deliver my heart here, and tear me
This badge of the Austrian away!"

So thought he, so died he this morning.
What then? Many others have died.
Ay, but easy for men to die scorning

The death-stroke who fought side by side

One tricolor floating above them;
Struck down 'mid triumphant acclaims
Of an Italy rescued to love them,

And blazon the brass with their names.
But he,-without witness or honour,

Mixed, shamed in his country's regard,
With the tyrants who march in upon her,
Died faithful and passive: 'twas hard.
'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction
Cut off from the guerdon of sons,
With most filial obedience, conviction,
His soul kissed the lips of her guns.

That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show it,
While digging a grave for him here:
The others who died, says your poet,
Have glory-let him have a tear.

EXCELSIOR. (Longfellow.)

THE shades of night were falling fast, as through an Alpine village passed a youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, a banner with the strange device, Excelsior! His brow was sad; his eye beneath, flashed like a falchion from its sheath; and like a silver clarion rung the accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior! In happy homes he saw the light of household fires gleam warm and bright; above, the spectral glaciers shone; and from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior! Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "dark lowers the tempest overhead; the roaring torrent is deep and wide!" and loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! "Oh, stay," the maiden said, and rest thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, but still he answered with a sigh, Excelsior! Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last Good night; a voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior! At break of day, as heavenward the pious monks of St. Bernard uttered the oft-repeated prayer, a voice cried through the

startled air, Excelsior! A traveller, by the faithful hound, half-buried in the snow was found, still grasping in his hand of ice that banner with the strange device, Excelsior! There in the twilight cold and grey, lifeless, but beautiful, he lay; and from the sky, serene and far, a voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior!

THE LADY OF PROVENCE.-(Mrs. Hemans.)

THE war-note of the Saracen was on the winds of France; it had stilled the harp of the troubadour, and the clash of the tourney's lance. The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, and the hollow echoes of charge and flight, were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray in a chapel where the mighty lay, on the old Provençal shore; many a Chatillon beneath, unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath, his shroud of armour wore. But meekly the voice of the lady rose through the trophies of their proud repose; and her fragile frame, at every blast that full of the savage war-horn passed, trembled, as trembles a bird's quick heart when it vainly strives from its cage to part,-so knelt she in her woe; a weeper alone with the tearless dead! Oh! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, or the dust had stirred below!-Hark! a swift step : she hath caught its tone through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan. Is her lord returned with his conquering bands?-No! a breathless vassal before her stands ! "Hast thou been on the field? art thou come from the host?" "From the slaughter, lady!-All, all is lost! Our banners are taken-our knights laid low-our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe-and thy lord "—his voice took a sadder sound"thy lord-he is not on the bloody ground! There are those who tell that the leader's plume was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom!" A change o'er her mien and spirit passed; she ruled the heart

which had beat so fast; she dashed the tears from her kindling eye, with a glance as of sudden royalty. "Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead, and fear not to say that their son hath fled? Away! he is lying by lance and shield: point me the path to his battle-field!"

Silently, with lips compressed, pale hands clasped above her breast, stately brow of anguish high, deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye-silently, o'er that red plain, moved the lady 'midst the slain. She searched into many an unclosed eye, that looked without soul to the starry sky: she bowed down o'er many a shattered breast, she lifted up helmet and cloven crestnot there not there he lay! "Lead where the most hath been dared and done, where the heart of the battle hath bled,-lead on!" And the vassal took the way. -He turned to a dark and lonely tree that waved o'er a fountain red; oh, swiftest there had the current free from noble veins been shed! Thickest there the spearheads gleamed, and the scattered plumage streamed, and the broken shields were tossed, and the shivered lances crossed. HE WAS THERE! the leader amidst his band, where the faithful had made their last vain stand; with the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped, and a banner of France to his bosom clasped !—She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe, the time was not yet for their waves to flow; and a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, as she turned to her followers :-" Your lord is there! look on him! know him by scarf and crest! bear him away with his sires to rest!"

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend—no brother of battle-no princely friend-by the red fountain the valiant lie, the flower of Provençal chivalry. But one free step, and one lofty heart, bear through that scene to the last their part. "I have