Hark! 'mid the gay clangour that compassed their car,
Loud accents in anger come mingling afar!
The foe's on the border! his weapons resound
Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found!

As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold,
When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold,
So rises already the Chief in his mail,

While the new-married Lady looks fainting and pale.
"Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife,
For sister and mother, for children and wife!
O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain,
Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!"
Farrah! to the battle!--They form into line-

The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine!
Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue-
On, burgher and yeoman! to die or to do!

The eve is declining in lone Malahide:

The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride;
She marks them unheeding--her heart is afar,
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war.
Hark! loud from the mountain-'tis victory's cry!
O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky!
The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore;
The spoiler's defeated--the combat is o'er!

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come-
But why have they muffled the lance and the drum ?
What form do they carry aloft on his shield?
And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?

Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning, the star of the day;
Now, weep for the lover-his triumph is sped,
His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!

But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen and rending with grief!
She sinks on the meadow:-in one morning-tide,
A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole!
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul:
True-true, 'twas a story for ages of pride;
He died in his glory-but, oh, he has died!
The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now,
And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow;
That glance may for ever unaltered remain,
But the bridegroom will never return it again.
The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,
The death-wail is rolling along the sea-side;

The crowds, heavy hearted, withdraw from the green,
For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!

How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed,
Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled!
Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply-
Thus joy has its measure-we live but to die!

LIX.-VIRGINIA-A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME.-Macaulay.

OVER the Alban mountains, the light of morning broke;
From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of smoke
The city gates were opened; the Forum, all alive

With buyers and with sellers, was humming like a hive:

Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing,
And blithely o'er her panniers the market-girl was singing;
And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home
Ah! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome.
With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm,
Forth she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm.
She crossed the Forum shining with the stalls in alleys gay,
And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day,
When up the varlet Marcus came; not such as when, erewhile,
He crouched behind his patron's heels, with the true client smile:
He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clenched fist.
And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist :
Hard strove the frighted maiden, and screamed with look aghast-
And at her scream from right and left the folk came running fast;
And the strong smith Muræna gave Marcus such a blow,
The caitiff reeled three paces back, and let the maiden go:
Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growled, in harsh fell tone,
"She's mine, and I will have her: I seek but for mine own.
She is my slave, born in my house, and stolen away and sold,
The year
of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve hours old.

I wait on Appius Claudius; I waited on his sire:

Let him who works the client wrong, beware the patron's ire!"
-But ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid,

Who clung tight to Muræna's skirt, and sobbed, and shrieked for aid,
Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed,
And stamped his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his breast,
And beckoned to the people, and, in bold voice and clear,
Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to hear.

"Now by your children's cradles, now, by your fathers' graves, Be men to-day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves!

For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed?
For this was the great vengeance wrought on Tarquin's evil seed?
For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire?
For this did Scævola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire?
Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den?
Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?
Oh, for that ancient spirit which curbed the Senate's will!
Oh, for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill!
In those brave days, our fathers stood firmly side by side;
They faced the Marcian fury, they tamed the Fabian pride:
They drove the fiercest Quintius an outcast forth from Rome;
They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.

But what their care bequeathed us, our madness flung away:
All the ripe fruit of three-score years is blighted in a day.
Exult, ye proud Patricians! the hard-fought fight is o'er :

We strove for honour-'twas in vain: for freedom--'tis no more.
Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will:
Riches, and lands, and power, and state, ye have them--keep them
still!

Still keep the holy fillets; still keep the purple gown,

The axes, and the curule chair, the car, and laurel crown;
Still press us for your cohorts, and, when the fight is done,

Still fill your garners from the soil which our good swords have won;
Still like a spreading ulcer which leech-craft may not cure,
Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the poor;
Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore;
Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore;
No fire, when Tiber freezes; no air, in dog-star heat;

And store of rods for free-born backs, and holes for free-born feet;
Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate;
Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate:-
But, by the Shades beneath us, and by the Gods above,
Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love!
Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs
From Consuls, and high Pontiffs, and ancient Alban Kings?
Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet--
Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering

street

Who, in Corinthian mirrors, their own proud smiles behold,
And breathe of Capuan odours, and shine with Spanish gold?
Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life-

The sweet sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife--
The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures-
The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours!
Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,

That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame;
Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,

And learn, by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!"

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide;
Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood,
Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood.
Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down-
Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown;

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child, farewell!

Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold, when I came back last year!
And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown,

And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown.

Now, all those things are over-ves, all thy pretty ways-
Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;
And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,
Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn:
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
Now for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.
The time is come! See, how he points his eager hand this way!
See, how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey!
With all his wit he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left.

He little deems, that in this hand, I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow-
Foul outrage, which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know
Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss,
And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way-but this!"
-With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,
And in her biood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died!
When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank down,
And hid his face, some little space, with the corner of his gown,
Till, with white lips, and blood-shot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment-seat and held the knife on high:
"Oh! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;
And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine,
Deal you by Appius Claudius, and all the Claudian line!"

-So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his way,
But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay*

And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then with steadfast feet,

Strode right across the market-place into the Sacred Street.

Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him; alive or dead! Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!” He looked upon his clients; but none would work his will; He looked upon his lictors; but they trembled, and stood still; And, as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left:

And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,

And there ta'en horse to tell the Camp what deeds are done in Rome.

LX.-MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.-H. 6 Bell.

I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array,

I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed 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 o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow passed,
And all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast.
No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim,
The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn.

And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,
In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please;
And little recked 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 holy 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 :-
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!
The homage of a thousand hearts the fond, deep love of one-
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun,-
They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek,
They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak:
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.

No marvel that the lady wept,--there was no land on earth
She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth;
It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends,--
It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends,-
The land where her dead husband slept--the land where she had
known

The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne:
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 seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.
The touch of care had blanched her cheek--her smile was sadder now,
The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow;
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field;
The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could not wield.
She thought of all her blighted hopes--the dreams of youth's brief day,
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 armèd men! the Douglas' battle-cry!
They come they come!-and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye!