Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels
For the first time her first born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The Earthquake's shock, the Ocean's storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
And thou art terrible; the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero-when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard,
The thanks of millions yet to be.

Come, when his task of fame is wrought;
Come, with the laurel-leaf blood-bought;
Come in the crowning hour; and then
Thy sunken eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars to prison'd men ;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
Which told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,

When the land wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee! there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree

In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb;
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babe's first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch, and cottage bed.
Her soldier closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden when she fears
For him the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom, without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

HALLECK.

I LOOK'D far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls;

*

*

*

*

*

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;—

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:

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*

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*

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!

*

*

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!

The scene was changed. It was a 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.

*

*

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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 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 brush'd aside the tears that trickling fell: Now for my father's arm!" she said; "my woman's heart, farewell!"

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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,

more free,

"were I but once

"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 burn'd upon her cheek-stream'd 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—i -it dies away; And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers-where 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 the cross-the cross she loved so well!