Calm, on the homeless cloud he leaves behind;
Yet beautiful as freshest flower full blown,
That bends beneath the midnight dews reclined;
Or yon resplendent path, o'er ocean's slumber
thrown.

"T was such a night—Oh, never, bless'd thought, depart!

When Mary utter'd first, in words of Aame,
The love, the guilt, the madness of her heart,
While on my bosom burn'd her cheek of shame.
Thy blood is ice, and therefore, thou wilt blame
The queen, the woman, the adulterous wife,
The hapless, and the fair!—Oh, but her name
Needs not thy mangling! Her disastrous life
Needs not thy curse! Spare, slanderer, spare her
fame!

Then wore the heavens, as now, the clouded veil ;
Yet mark'd I well her tears, and that wan smile
So tender, so confiding, whose sweet tale,
By memory told, can even now beguile
My spirit of its gloom! for then the pale
Sultana of the night her form display'd,
Pavilion'd in the pearly clouds afar,
Like brightness sleeping, or a naked maid,
In virgin charms unrivall'd; while each star,
Astonish'd at her beauty, seem'd to fade-
Each planet, envy-stung, to turn aside-
Veiling their blushes with their golden hair.
Oh! moment rich in transport, love, and pride!
Big, too, with wo, with terror, with despair!
While, wrestling thus, I strive to choak my groan,
And, what I cannot shun, may learn to bear,
That moment is immortal, and my own!
Fate from that grasp that moment tear!
That moment for an age of might atone!
Poor Rizio of the flute, whom few bewail; [hate.
Worth Mary's tears, was well worth Darnley's
Jealous again! Why, who could e'er prevail,
Monarch or slave, in conflict with his fate?
Behold the King of Hear it not, chaste night!
King! keep no monkey that has got a tail!
In nought but things emasculate delight!
Let no fly touch her, lest it be a male!
And, like the devil, infest a paradise in spite!
Pride, without honour! body, without soul!
The heartless breast a brainless head implies.
If men are mad, when passion scorns control,
And self-respect with shame and virtue flies, [rude!
Darnley hath long been mad.-Thou coxcomb
Thou reptile, shone on by an angel's eyes!
Intemperate brute, with meanest thoughts imbued!
Dunghill! wouldst thou the sun monopolize?
Wouldst thou have Mary's love? for what? In-
gratitude.

The quivering flesh, though torture-torn, may live;
But souls, once deeply wounded, heal no more:
And deem'st thou that scorn'd woman can forgive?
Darnley, uou dream'st, but not as heretofore!
Mary's feign'd smile, assassin-like, would gore;
There is a snake beneath her sorrowing eye;
The crocodile can weep: with bosom frore
O'er thy sick-bed she heaves a traitorous sigh:
Ah, do not hope to live! she knows that thou
shalt die.

Yet Mary wept for Darnley, while she kiss'd
His murderer's check at midnight. Sad was she;
And he, who then had seen her, would have miss'
The rose that was not where it wont to be,
Or marvell'd at its paleness. None might see
The heart, but on the features there was wo.
Then put she on a mask, and gloomily-
For dance and ball prepared-arose to go:

66

Spare, spare my Darnley's life!" she said-but mean'd she so?

Now bends the murderer-Mark his forehead fell!
What says the dark deliberation there?-
Now bends the murderer--Hark!—it is a knell!-
Hark!-sound or motion? 'Twas his cringing hair.
Now bends the murderer-wherefore doth he start?
'Tis silence-silence that is terrible!

When he hath usiness, silence should depart,
And maniac darkness, borrowing sounds from hell,
Suffer him not to hear his throbbing heart?--
Now bends the nurderer o'er the dozing king,
Who, like an o'er-gorged serpent, motionless,
Lies drunk with wine, a seeming-senseless thing;
Yet his eyes roll with dreadful consciousness,
Thickens his throat in impotent distress,

And his voice strives for utterance, while that wretch
Doth on his royal victim's bosom press
His knee, preparing round his neck to stretch
The horrible cord. Lo! dark as the alpine vetch,
Stares his wide-open, blood-shot, bursting eye,
And on the murderer flashes vengeful fire;
While the black visage, in dire agony,
Swells, like a bloated toad that dies in ire,
And quivers into fixedness!-On high
Raising the corpse, forth into the moonlight air
The staggering murderer bears it silently,

Lays it on earth, sees the fix'd eye-ball glare,

And turns, affrighted, from the lifeless stare.
Ho! fire the mine! and let the house be rent
To atoms-that dark guile may say to fear,
"Ah, dire mischance! mysterious accident!
Ah, would it were explain'd!" ah, would it were!
Up, up, the rushing, red volcano went,

And wide o'er earth, and heav'n, and ocean flash'd
A torrent of earth-lightning skyward sent:
O'er heaven, earth, sea, the dread explosion crash'd;
Then,clattering far, the downward fragments dash'd.
Roar'd the rude sailor o'er the illumined sea.
"Hell is in Scotland!" Shudder'd Roslin's hall
Low'd the scared heifer on the distant lea,
Trembled the city, shrick'd the festival,
Paused the pale dance from his delighted task,
Quaked every masker of the splendid ball;
Raised hands, unanswer'd questions seem'd to ask;
And there was one who lean'd against the wall,
Close pressing to her face, with hands convulser.
her mask.

And night was after that, but blessed night
Was never more! for thrilling voices cried
To the dreaming sleep, on the watcher's pale
affright,

Frowns on thy brow, where drops of agony
Stand thick and beadlike; and, while all thy form
Is crumpled with convulsion, threateningly [worm.
Thou breathest, smiting the air, and writhing like a
Both. Treason in arms!-Sirs, ye are envious all.
To Mary's marriage did ye not consent?
Do you deny your signatures-this scrawl
Of your vile names? True, I do not repent
That I divorced any wife to wed the queen;
True, I hate Mar; true, I scorn Huntley's bawl;
True, I am higher now than I have been-
And will remain so, though your heads should fall.
Craig, of the nasal twang, who prayest so well!
Glencairn, of the icy eye, and tawny hide!
If I am prouder than the prince of hell,
Are ye all meanness that ye have no pride?
My merit is my crime. I love my sword,
And that high sin for which the angels fell;
But still agrees my action with my word;
That your's does not so, let rebellion tell.
Submit! or perish here! or elsewhere-by the cord.
My comrades, whose brave deeds my heart attests,
Be jocund!-But, ah, see their trembling knees!
Their eyes are vanquish'd-not by the tossing crests,
But by yon rag, the pestilence of the breeze,
Painted with villanous horror! In their breasts
Ardour and manliness make now with fear
A shameful treaty, casting all behests
That honour loves, into the inglorious rear.
By heaven, their cowardice hath sold us here!
Ha! dastards, terror-quell'd as by a charm, [thee,
What! steal ye from the field ?-My sword for
Mary! add courage for his cause! this arm
Shall now decide the contest!-Can it be?
Did Lindsay claim the fight?-and still lives he?
He lives, and I to say it. Hell's black night
Lower'd o'er my soul, and Darnley scowi'd on me,
And Mary would not let her coward fight,
But bade him barter all for infamy!
Dishonour'd, yet unburied! Morton's face
Wrinkled with insult; while, with cover'd brow,
Bravest Kirkaldy mourr 1 a foe's disgrace;

And Murray's mean contempt was mutter'd low
Pale, speechless Mary wept, almost ashamed
Of him she mourn'd. Flash'd o'er my cheek the
glow

Of rage against myself; and undef med,
Worse than my reputation, and no slow,

I left my soul beh nd, and fled in wordless wo.
Then ocean was my home, and I became
Outcast of human kind, making my prey
The pallid merchant; and my wither'd name
Was leagued with spoil, and havoc, and dismay;
Fear'd, as the lightning fiend, on steed of flame-
The Arab of the sky. And from that day
Mary I saw no Liore. Sleepless desire
Wept; but she came not, even in dreams, to say,
Until this hour,) All hopeless wretch, expire!"
Rhin. A troubled dream thy changeful life hath

been

Of storm and splendour. Girt with awe and power,
A Thane illustrious; married to a queen;
Obey'd, loved, flatter'd; blasted in an hour;
A homicide; a homeless fugitive

O'er earth, to take a waste without a flower;
A pirate on the ocean, doom'd to live
Like the dark osprey! Could fate sink thee lower!
Defeated, captured, dungeon'd, in this tower
A raving maniac!

Both. Ah, what next? the gloom

Of rayless fire eternal, o'er the foam
Of torment-uttering curses, and the boom
That moans through horror's everlasting home!
Wo, without hope-immortal wakefulness-
The brow of tossing agony-the gloam
Of flitting fiends, who, with taunts pitiless,
Talk of lost honour, rancorous, as they roam
Through night, whose vales no dawn shall ever
bless!-

Accursed who outlives his fame!-Thou scene
Of my last conflict, where the captive's chain
Made me acquainted with despair! serene
Ocean, thou mock'st my bitterness of pain,
For thou, too, sawest me vanquish'd, yet not slain!
Oh, that my heart's-blood hall but stain'd the wave,
That I had plung'd never to rise again,
And sought in thy profoundest depths a grave!
White billow! knowest thou Scotland? did thy wet
Foot ever spurn the shell on her loved strand!
There hast thou stoop'd, the sea-weed gray to fret➡-
Or glaze the pebble with thy crystal hand?
I am of Scotland. Dear to me the sand
That sparkles where my infant days were nursed!
Dear is the vilest weed of that wild land
Where I have been so happy, so accursed!
Oh, tell me, hast thou seen my lady stand
Upon the moonlight shore, with troubled eye, [her?
Looking towards Norway? didst thou gaze on
And did she speak of one far thence, and sigh!
Oh, that I were with thee a passenger
To Scotland, the bless'd Thule, with a sky
Changeful, like woman! would, oh, would I were!
But vainly hence my franti. wishes fly,
Who reigns at Holyrood? Is Mary there?
And does she sometimes shed, for I m once loved
a tear?

;

Farewell, my heart's divinity! To kiss
Thy sad lip into smiles of tenderness;
To worship at that stainless shrine of bliss
To meet the elysium of thy warm caress;
To be the prisoner of thy tears; to bless
Thy dark eye's weeping passion; and to hear
The word, or sigh, soul-toned, or accentless,
Marmur for one so vile, and yet so dear— [Fear!
Alas! 'tis mine no more!-Thou hast undone me,
Champion of freedom, pray thee, pardon me
My laughter, if I now can laugh!—(in hell
They laugh not)-he who doth now address thee
Is Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. Hark! my kneli!
The death-owl shrieks it. Ere I cease to fetch
These pantings for the shroud, tell me, oh tell!
Believest thou God?-Blow on a dying wretch,
Blow, wind that comest from Scotland!-Fare-
thee-well!

The owl shrieks-I shall have no other passing-bell. Rhin. As from the chill, bright ice the sunbeam flies,

So (but reluctant) life's last light retires
From the cold mirror of his closing eyes:
He bids the surge adieu !-falls back-expires!
No passing bell? Yea, I that bell will be;
Pale night shall hear the requiem of my sighs;
My wo-worn heart hath still some tears for thee;
Nor will thy shade the tribute sad despise.
Brother, farewell!-Ah, yes!-no voice replies;
But my tears flow-albeit in vain they flow-
For him who at my feet so darkly sleeps;
And freedom's champion, with the locks of snow,
Now fears the form o'er which he sternly weeps.
An awful gloom upon my spirit creeps.
My ten years' comrade! whither art thou fled?
Thou art not here! Thy lifeless picture keeps
Its place before me, while, almost in dread,
I shrink, yet gaze, and long to share thy bed.
[He retires to a corner of the dungeon
farthest from the corpse, and there con-
tinues to gaze upon it in silence.]

ON SEEING AUDUBON'S "BIRDS OF AMERICA."

"PAINTING is silent music." So said one
Whose prose is sweetest painting. Audubon !
Thou Raphael of great Nature's woods and seas!
Thy living forms and hues, thy plants, thy trees,
Bing deathless music from the houseless waste-
The immortality of truth and taste.

Thou givest bright accents to the voiceless sod;
And all thy pictures are mute hymns to God.
Why hast thou power to bear the untravell'd soul
Through farthest wilds, o'er ocean's stormy roll;
And, to the prisoner of disease, bring home
The homeless birds of ocean's roaring foam;
But that thy skill might bid the desert sing
The sun-bright plumage of the Almighty's wing?
With his own hues thy splendid lyre is strung;
For genius speaks the universal tongue. [wine-
Come," cries the bigot, black with pride and

"

"Come and hear me-the Word of God is mine!"
But I," saith He, who paves with suns his car,
And makes the storms his coursers from afar,
And, with a glance of his all-dazzling eye,
Smites into crashing fire the boundless sky-
"I speak in this swift sea-bird's speaking eyes,
These passion-shiver'd plumes, these lucid dyes:
This beauty is my lar guage! in this breeze
I whisper love to forests and the seas;

I speak in this lone flower-this dew-drop cold--
That hornet's sting-yon serpent's neck of gold
These are my accents. Hear them! and behold
How well my prophet-spoken truth agrees
With the dread truth and mystery of these
Sad, beautecus, grand, love-warbled mysteries!"
Yes, Audubon! and men shall read in thee
His language, written for eternity;

And if, immortal in its thoughts, the soul
Shall live in heaven, and spurn the tomb's control,
Angels shall retranscribe, with pens of fire,
Thy forms of Nature's terror, love, and ire,
Thy copied words of God-when death-struck
suns expire.

THE PRESS.

GoD said "Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt his might,
And fled away;

Then startled seas and n ountains cold
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold,

And cried "Tis day! 'tis day!"
"Hail, holy light!" exclaim'd
The thunderous cloud, that flamed
O'er daises white;

And lo! the rose, in crimson dress'd,
Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast;

And, blushing, murmur'd—“ Light :'
Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattled corn;

Then floods of praise

Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pour'd forth her pensive lays.
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo, trees and flowers all clad

In glory, bloom!

And shall the mortal sons of God
Be senseless as the trodden clod,

And darker than the tomb?
No, by the mind of man!
By the swart artisan!

By God, our Sire!

Our souls have holy light within.
And every form of grief and sin

Shall see and feel its fire.
By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven !
Mind, mind alone

Is light, and hope, and life, and power!
Earth's deepest night, from this bless'd hour
The night of mrds is gone!

The dew-drop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloom'd; and was I born
To die as soon?

To love my mother and to die-
To perish in my bloom!
Is this my sad brief history?—
A tear dropp'd from a mother's eye
Into the tomb.

He lived and loved-will sorrow say
By early sorrow tried;
He smiled, he sigh'd, he past away;
His life was but an April day-

He loved and died!

My mother smiles, then turns away,
But turns away to weep:

They whisper round me-what they say
I need not hear, for in the clay
I soon must sleep.

Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is
To be both tried and true;

I ever trembled in my bliss;
Now there are farewells in a kiss-
They sigh adieu.

But woodbines flaunt when blue-bells fade,
Where Don reflects the skies;
And many a youth in Shire-cliffs' shade
Will ramble where my boyhood play'd,
Though Alfred dies.

Then panting woods the breeze will feel,
And bowers, as heretofore,
Beneath their load of roses reel;
But I through woodbined lanes shall steal
No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,

Where late we stood and wept;
For I was stricken when he died-
I felt the arrow as he sigh'd
His last and slept.

COME AND GONE.

THE silent moonbeams on the drifted snow
Shine cold, and pale, and blue,

While through the cottage-door the yule log's glow
Cast on the iced oak's trunk and gray rock's brow
A ruddy hue.

The red ray and the blue, distinct and fair,
Like happy groom and bride,
With azured green, and emerald-orange glare,
Gilding the icicles from branches bare,

Lie side by side.

The door is open, and the fire burns bright,
And Hannah at the door,

Stands-through the clear, cold moon'd, and starry night,

Gazing intently towards the 8: arce-seen height, O'er the white moor.

His sister he beholds, who died when he,
In London bound, wept o'er

Her last sad letter; vain her prayer to see
Poor Edwin yet again :-he ne'er will be
Her playmate more!

No more with her will hear the bittern boom
At evening's dewy close!

No more with her will wander where the broom
Contends in beauty with the hawthorn bloom
And budding rose!

Oh, love is strength! love, with divine control,
Recalls us when we roam!

In living light it bids the dimm'd eye roll,
And gives a dove's wing to the fainting soul,

And bears it home.

Home!-that sweet word hath turn'd his pale lip red,
Relumed his fireless eye;

Again the morning o'er his cheek is spread;
The early rose, that seem'd for ever dead,

Returns to die.

Home! home!-Behold the cottage of the moor, That hears the sheep-boy's call!

And Hannah meets him at the open door
With faint fond scream; and Alfred, old and poor,
"Thanks God for all!"

His lip is on his mother's; to her breast
She clasps him, heart to heart;

His hands between his father's hands are press'd;
They sob with joy, caressing and caressed:

How soon to part!

Why should they know that thou so soon, O Death! Wilt pluck him, like a weed?

Why fear consumption in his quick-drawn breath?
Why dread the hectic flower, which blossometh
That worms may feed?

They talk of other days, when, like the birds,
He cull'd the wild flower's bloom,

And roam'd the moorland, with the houseless herds;

He wept. But still, almost till morning beamed,
They talk'd of Jane-then slept.

But, though he slept, his eyes, half-open, gleam'd
For still of dying Jane her brother dream'd,
And, dreaming, wept.

At mid-day he arose, in tears, and sought

The churchyard where she lies. [wrought; He found her name beneath the snow-wreath Then from her grave a knot of grass he brought, With tears and sighs.

The hour of parting came, when feelings deep
In the heart's depth awake.

To his sad mother, pausing oft to weep,
He gave a token, which he bade her keep
For Edwin's sake.

It was a grassy sprig, and auburn tress,
Together twined and tied.

He left them, then, for ever! could they less
Than bless and love that type of tenderness?-
Childless they died!

Long in their hearts a cherish'd thought they wore And till their latest breath,

Bless'd him, and kiss'd his last gift o'er and o'er; But they beheld their Edwin's face no more

In life or death!

For where the upheaved sea of trouble foams,
And sorrow's billows rave,

Men, in the wilderness of myriad homes,
Far from the desert, where the wild flock roams,
Dug Edwin's grave.

FOREST WORSHIP.

WITHIN the sun-lit forest,

Our roof the bright blue sky,

Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow,
We lift our hearts on high:
Beneath the frown of wicked men

Our country's strength is bowing;
But, thanks to God! they can't prevent
The lone wildflowers from blowing!
High, high above the tree-tops,

The lark is soaring free;

Where streams the light through broken clud His speckled breast I see:

Beneath the might of wicked men

The poor man's worth is dying;
But, thank'd be God! in spite of them,
The lark still warbles flying!

The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us !"
Lord. bless us!" echo cries;
"Amen!" the breezes murmur low,
"Amen!" the rill replies:

The ceaseless toil of wo-worn hearts
The proud with pangs are paying,
But here, O God of earth and heaven!
The hun ble heart is praying?

Q