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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,

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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 gray, 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!

LXI. THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.-Coates.

DARK is the night! how dark!-no light! no fire!
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire!
Shivering she watches by the cradle-side,

For him who pledged her love-last year a bride!
"Hark! 'tis his footstep! No-'tis past: 'tis gone:
Tick!-Tick! -How wearily the time crawls on!
Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind!
And I believed 'twould last:-how mad!-how blind!
"Rest thee, my babe!--rest on!-'Tis hunger's cry!
Sleep! for there is no food! the fount is dry!
Famine and cold their wearying work have done;
My heart must break!-And thou!"- The clock strikes one.

"Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes, he's there, he's there!
For this, for this, he leaves me to despair!

Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child!--for what?
The wanton's smile-the villain--and the sot!

"Yet I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain!—

"Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again!
And I could starve and bless him, but for you,

My child! his child!--Oh fiend!"- The clock strikes two.
"Hark! how the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by!
Moan-Moan!--A dirge swells through the cloudy sky!
Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes!--he comes once more-
Tis but the lattice flaps! Thy hope is o'er!

"Can he desert me thus? He knows I stay
Night after night in loneliness to pray

For his return--and yet he sees no tear!

No! no! it cannot be. He will be here.

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Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart!

Thou'rt cold! thou'rt freezing! But we will not part.
Husband! I die!-Father!-It is not he!

Oh Heaven! protect my child!"-The clock strikes three.
They're gone! they're gone! The glimmering spark hath fled,
The wife and child are numbered with the dead!

On the cold hearth, out-stretched in solemn rest
The child lies frozen on its mother's breast!
-The gambler came at last-but all was o'er-

Dead silence reigned around-he groaned he spoke no more!

LXII. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.-Thomas Davis.

THE summer's sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles
The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles
Dld Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard:
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray :-
And full of love, and peace, and rest-its daily labour o'er-
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore,

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.

So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide,
Must trust their oars-methinks not few-against the ebbing tide.
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore-
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore !

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet-
-A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "The roof is in a flame!"

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From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame

And meet, upon the threshold-stone, the gleaming sabres' fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawlThe yell of" Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar— Oh, fearful fate! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching

wild;

Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child;-
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel!—
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore !

Mid-summer morn!-in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing—
They see not now the milking maids, deserted is the spring!
Mid-summer day!-this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town-
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown;
They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues
before,

The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

"Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed_

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This boy will bear a Schiek's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.
Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles;
And some are for the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey
-She's safe - he's dead-she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai ;
And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled-O'Driscol's child-she thought of Baltimore !
'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,
Where high upon the gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen-
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan-he who steered the Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there:-
Some muttered of MacMorrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er—
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore!

LXIII.-ORANGE AND GREEN.-Gerald Griffin.

THE night was falling dreary in merry Bandon town,
When in his cottage weary an Orangeman lay down.
The summer sun in splendour had set upon the vale,
And shouts of "No surrender" arose upon the gale.

Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees,
The Orange banners waving, flew boldly in the breeze-
In mighty chorus meeting, a hundred voices join,
And fife and drum were beating the Battle of the Boyne.
Ha! toward his cottage hieing, what form is speeding now,
From yonder thicket flying, with blood upon his brow?

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'Hide-hide me, worthy stranger, though Green my colour be, And in the day of danger may heaven remember thee!

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In yonder vale contending alone against that crew,

My life and limbs defending, an Orangeman I slew.

-Hark! hear that fearful warning! there's death in every tone-
Oh, save my life till morning, and heaven prolong your own.'
The Orange heart was melted in pity to the Green;
He heard the tale and felt it, his very soul within.
"Dread not that angry warning, though death be in its tone-
I'll save your life till morning, or I will lose my own.'

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Now, round his lowly dwelling, the angry torrent pressed,
A hundred voices s velling, the Orangeman addressed-
"Arise, arise, and follow the chace along the plain!
In yonder stony hollow your only son is slain !"
With rising shouts they gather upon the track amain,
And leave the childless father aghast with sudden pain.
He seeks the righted stranger in covert where he lay-
"Arise!" he said, "all danger is gone and passed away!
"I had a son-one only, one loved as my life,

Thy hand has left me lonely, in that accursed strife.

I pledged my word to save thee until the storm should cease,
I keep the pledge I gave thee-arise, and go in peace!"
The stranger soon departed from that unhappy vale;
The father, broken-hearted, lay brooding o'er the tale.
Full twenty sunimers after to silver turned his beard;
And yet the sound of laughter from him was never heard.

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The night was falling dreary in merry Wexford town,
When in his cabin weary, a peasant laid him down.
And many a voice was singing along the summer vale,

And Wexford town was ringing with shouts of “Granua Uile."* Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees,

The green flag, gaily waving, was spread against the breezeIn mighty chorus meeting, loud voices filled the town,

And fife and drum were beating, "Down, Orangemen, lie down."

Hark! 'mid the stirring clangour that woke the echoes there,
Loud voices, high in anger, rise on the evening air.
Like billows of the ocean, he sees them hurry on-
And, 'mid the wild commotion, an Orangeman alone.

* Generally written Granu-wail.

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'My hair,” he said, "is hoary, and feeble is my hand,
And I could tell a story would shame your cruel band.
Full twenty years and over have changed my heart and brow,
And I am grown a lover of peace and concord now.

"It was not thus I greeted your brother of the Green,
When fainting and defeated I freely took him in.

I pledged my word to save him from vengeance rushing on.
I kept the pledge I gave him, though he had killed my son."
That aged peasant heard him, and knew him as he stood.
Remembrance kindly stirred him, and tender gratitude.
With gushing tears of pleasure, he pierced the listening train,
"I'm here to pay the measure of kindness back again!"
Upon his bosom falling, the old man's tears came down;
Deep memory recalling that cot and fatal town.

The hand that would offend thee, my being first shall end;
I'm living to defend thee, my saviour and my friend!"

He said, and slowly turning, addressed the wondering crowd;
With fervent spirit burning, he told the tale aloud.

Now pressed the warm beholders their aged foe to greet:

They raised him on their shoulders and chaired him through the street.

As he had saved that stranger, from peril scowling dim,

So in his day of danger did Heaven remember him.

By joyous crowds attended, the worthy pair were seen,

And their flags that day were blended, of Orange and of Green.

LXIV. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.-Byron.

STOP! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!-
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust,
Or column trophied, for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.--
How that red rain--hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! King-making Victory?
There was a sound of revelry by night:
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes that spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell

But hush!-hark! A deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it ?-No: 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance !-let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet

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