As there by a pallet, whereon appears As the roar comes in from the ring outside! Hath dragged her down with its subtle curse? Alone with his dead! Now, dazed, appalled, His cue is on-there is no relief! A moment more, and he 's there again, With the cap and bells, in the cirque's expanse; By the jester's garb, as a laughing mask? Ill would it fare with us, rich or poor, THE CORONATION-PAGEANT OF ANNE BOLEYN. J. A. FROUDE. Glorious as the spectacle was, perhaps, however it passed unheeded. Those eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew near. In an open space behind the con. stable there was seen approaching “a white chariot,” drawn by two palfreys in white damask which swept the ground, a golden canopy borne above it making music with silver bells: and in the chariot sat the observed of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this glittering homage; fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of England--queen at last!-borne along upon the waves of this sea of glory, breathing the perfumed incense of greatness which she had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her honor, her self-respect, to win; and she had won it. There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a light coronet of gold and diamonds-most beautifulloveliest-most favored, perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of all England's daughters. Alas!" within the hollow round of that coronet "Kept Death his court, and there the antick sate To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, As if the flesh which walled about her life Were brass impregnable; and humored thus, Bored thro' her castle walls; and farewell, Queen!" Fatal gift of greatness! so dangerous ever! so more than dangerous in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loose of the great deeps of thought, and nations are in the throes of revolution; when ancient order and law and traditions are splitting in the social earthquake; and as the opposing forces wrestle to and fro, those unhappy ones who stand out above the crowd become the symbols of the struggle, and fall the victims of its alternating fortunes. And what if into an unsteady heart and brain, intoxicated with splendor, the outward chaos should find its way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion-if conscience should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box be broken loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope of God's forgiveness. Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London-not radiant then with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor, wandering ghost, on a sad, tragic errand, from which she will never more return, passing away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a pres ence where, nevertheless, we know that all is well-for all of us-and therefore for her. Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce at that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling? Did any vision flit across her of a sad, mourning figure which once had stood where she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking into the darkening twilight of a life cut short by sorrow? Who can tell? At such a time, that figure would have weighed heavily upon a noble mind, and a wise mind would have been taught by the thought of it, that, although life be fleeting as a dream, it is long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of fortune. But Anne Boleyn was not noble and was not wise--too probably she felt nothing but the delicious, all-absorbing, all-intoxicating present; and if that plain, suffering face presented itself to her memory at all, we may fear that it was rather as a foil to her own surpassing loveliness. Two years later she was able to exult over Katharine's death; she is not likely to have thought of her with gentler feelings in the first glow and flush of triumph. MILTIADES PETERKIN PAUL.-JOHN BROWNJOHN. Little Miltiades Peterkin Paul Had been heard to declare he feared nothing at all. "There's Abiathar Ann"-he would say-"now, at her age, I can tell you, though, that's not the stuff I am made of! I never saw anything I was afraid of!" But one warm summer evening it chanced to befall Having been to the village for John Henry Jack, Found it growing quite dark when he came to start back. All at once young Miltiades Peterkin Paul, As he turned down the lane, perceived, close by the wall, Right before him, a dark, ghostly shape, crouching low, Which frightened poor little Miltiades so That he turned cold all over-our valiant young heroJust as though the thermometer 'd dropped down to zero; Then, his heart beating loudly, he covered his face With his hands, and trudged on at a much quicker pace. But little Miltiades Peterkin Paul Had not gone many steps, when he thought, "After all, Some old stump, or a rock, or the cow, for a 'spook.' For one moment Miltiades Peterkin Paul Was so terribly frightened he thought he would fall; And he uttered a shriek, and sped on without knowing But little Miltiades Peterkin Paul, Though he ran like the wind, found 'twas no use at all. But just then the ghost spoke and soothed his alarms, And he found he'd rushed into his own brother's arms. Why," cried John Henry Jack," what does this mean, my lad? Oh, I see. Ha, ha, ha! Why, sir, that's your own shadow!" "Please don't tell our Abiathar Ann-that is all!" -The Wide Awake. THERE'S WORK ENOUGH TO DO. The black-bird early leaves its rest, And gather fragments for its nest, The cowslip and the spreading vine, The snow-drop and the eglantine, And writes upon his tiny heap- The planets, at their Maker's will, Who then can sleep, when all around Shall man-creation's lord be found Our courts and alleys are the field, To have a heart for those who weep, To help the poor, the hungry feed, To give him coat and shoe; To see that all can write and read- The time is short-the world is wide, This wondrous earth and all its pride The moments fly on lightning's wings, We've none to waste on foolish things- |