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The past was bright, like those dear hills The traitorous scroll that snatched the so far behind her bark;

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crown from her ancestral line:--

My lords my lords!" the captive said,

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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!"

The scene was changed. It was an eve of A red spot burned upon her cheek-raw and surly mood,

And in a turret-chamber high of ancient
Holyrood

Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sigh-
ing with the winds,

streamed her rich tresses down;

She wrote the words-she stood erect-a queen without a crown!

BATTLE OF LANGSIDE.

That seemed to suit the stormy state of The scene was changed. A royal host a men's uncertain minds. royal banner bore,

The touch of care had blanched her cheek And the faithful of the land stood round ---her smile was sadder now; their smiling queen once more:

The weight of royalty had pressed too She stayed her steed upon a hill-she saw heavy on her brow; them marching by-

And traitors to her councils came, and She heard their shouts - she read success rebels to the field;in every flashing eye:

The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the The tumult of the strife begins-it roars— sword she could not wield.

She thought of all her blighted hopes--the dreams of youth's brief day,

it dies away;

And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers-where are they?

And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and Scattered and strewn, and flying far, debade the minstrel play

fenceless and undone

The songs she loved in early years the O God! to see what she has lost, and think songs of gay Navarre,

what guilt has won !

The songs, perchance, that erst were sung Away! away! thy gallant steed must act by gallant Chatelar:

no laggard's part;

They half beguiled her of her cares, they Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the soothed her into smiles, arrow in thy heart.

They won her thoughts from bigot zeal,

and fierce domestic broils:-

FOTHERINGAY CASTLE.

But hark! the tramp of armed men! the The scene was changed. Beside the block Douglas' battle-cry! a sullen headsman stood, They come they come-and lo! the scowl And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, of Ruthven's hollow eye! that soon must drip with blood. And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, With slow and steady step there came a and tears and words are vain,

lady through the hall,

The ruffian steel is in his heart-the faith- And breathless silence chained the lips, ful Rizzio's slain ! and touched the hearts of all:

Then Mary Stuart brushed aside the tears Rich were the sable robes she wore--her that trickling fell: white veil round her fell"Now for my father's arm!" she said; | And from her neck there hung the crossmy woman's heart farewell!"

LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

the cross she loved so well!

I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom--

The scene was changed. It was a lake, I saw that grief had decked it out--an ofwith one small lonely isle, fering for the tomb!

And there, within the prison-walls of its I knew the eye, though faint its light, that baronial pile, once so brightly shoneStern men stood menacing their queen, till I knew the voice, though feeble now, that she should stoop to sign 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!

Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bowed' Her neck is bared-the blow is struck the soul is passed away;

Even now I see her far away, in that calm The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleedconvent aisle, ing piece of clay !

I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it her holy smilegurgles o'er,

Even now I see her bursting forth, upon Laps the warm blood that trickling runs her bridal morn,

A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!

unheeded to the floor!

The blood of beauty, wealth, and powerthe heart-blood of a queen--

Alas, the change! she placed her foot The noblest of the Stuart race-the fairest upon a triple throne, earth hath seen

And on the scaffold now she stands-be- Lapped by a dog! Go, think of it in silence side the block, alone! and alone;

The little dog that licks her hand, the last Then weigh against a grain of sand the of all the crowd glories of a throne!

THE RAVEN.

H. G. BELL.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesi tating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly But the fact is I was napping, and so gently

there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping
at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here
I opened wide the door;-

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly had But the silence was unbroken, and the

I sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow

for the lost Lenore

darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore!"

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For the rare and radiant maiden whom the This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

angels name Lenore

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of Back into the chamber turning, all my soul each purple curtain

within me burning,

Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic ter- Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat

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Some late visitor entreating entrance at my Let my heart be still a moment and this

chamber door;

This it is, and nothing more,"

mystery explore;-

"Tis the wind, and nothing more!"

Open here I flung a shutter, when with But the raven still beguiling all my sad many a flirt and flutter soul into smiling,

In there stepped a stately raven of the Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in saintly days of yore! front of bird, and bust, and door;

Not the least obeisance made he; not an Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook instant stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched

above my chamber door

myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt my chamber door

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad

fancy into smiling,

and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

By the grave and stern decorum of the To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into

countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore,

my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the But whose velvet violet lining, with the Night's Plutonian shore.'

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lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore !

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or devil!

Though its answer little meaning, little By that heaven that bends above us, by relevancy bore; that God we both adore

For we cannot help agreeing that no living. Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within human being the distant Aidenn Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the his chamber door, angels name Lenore

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the above his chamber door, angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven, Nevermore."

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With such a name as Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one

word he did outpour.

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Be that word our sign of parting, bird or
fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--

Get thee back into the tempest and the
Night's Plutonian shore !

Nothing further then he uttered--not a Leave no black plume as a token of the lie

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Followed fast and followed faster, till his And the lamp-light o'er him streaming

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THE EYE.

Ir is one of the prerogatives of man to have eyes. Many living creatures have none. The eyes which others-for example, the star-fishes—have, are mere sensitive points, dimly conscious of light and darkness, but not perceiving colours, or distinguishing forms. The eyes of flies are hard, horny lanterns, which cannot be moved about like our restless eyes, but look always in the same direction; whilst spiders, having many more things to look after than one pair of such lanterns will suffice for, have eyes stuck all over their heads, and can watch a trapped gnat with one eye, and peer through a hole in their webs with another. We are much better provided for than any of these creatures, although we have but two small orbs to see with. Think, first, how beautiful the human eye is, excelling in beauty the eye of every creature. The eyes of many of the lower animals are doubtless very beautiful. You must have admired the bold, fierce, bright eye of the eagle; the large, gentle, brown eye of the ox; the treacherous green eye of the cat, waxing and waning like the moon, as the sun shines upon it or deserts it; the pert eye of the sparrow; the sly eye of the fox; the peering little bead of black enamel in the mouse's head; the gem-like eye which redeems the toad from ugliness; and the intelligent, affectionate expression, which looks out from the human-like eye of the horse and the dog. There are these and the eyes of many other animals full of beauty; there are none, indeed, which are not beautiful; but there is a glory which excelleth in the eye of man. We realize this fully only when we gaze into the faces of those we love. It is their eyes we look at when we are near them, and recall when we are far away. face is a blank without the eye; and the eye seems to concentrate every feature in itself. It is the eye that smiles, not the lips; it is the eye that listens, not the ear; it that frowns, not the brow; it that mourns, not the voice. Every sense and every faculty seems to flow towards it, and find expression through it, nay, to

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be lost in it: for all must at times have felt as if the eye of another was not his, but he; as if it had not merely a life, but also a personality of its own; as if it was not only a living thing, but also a thinking being.

But apart from this source of beauty, in which man's eye must excel that of all other creatures as much as his spirit excels in endowments theirs; it is in itself, even when life has departed from it, and the soul no longer looks through its window, a beautiful and a very wonderful thing. Its beauty is, perhaps, most apparent in the eye of an infant, which, if you please, we shall suppose not dead, but only asleep with its eyes wide open. How large and round they are; how pure and pearly the white is, with but one blue vein or two marbling its surface; how beautiful the rainbow ring, opening its mottled circle wide to the light! How sharply defined the pupil, so black and yet so clear, that you look into it as into some deep, dark well, and see a little face look back at you, which you forget is your own, whilst you rejoice that the days are not yet come for those infant eyes, when "they that look out of the windows shall be darkened!" And then, the soft pink curtains which we call eyelids, with their long silken fringes of eyelashes, and the unshed tears bathing and brightening all! How exquisite the whole! How precious in the sight of God must those little orbs be, when he has bestowed upon them so much beauty!

But apart altogether from that beauty which delights the painter, the human eye is a wondrous construction. Let us glance for a moment at its wonderfulness. It is essentially a hollow globe, or small spherical chamber. There is no human chamber like it in form, unless we include among human dwelling-places the great hollow balls which surmount the Cathedral or Basilica Domes of St. Peter and St. Paul. The eye is such a ball: the larger part of it, which we do not see when we look in each other's faces, forms the white of the eye, and consists of a strong, thick, tough membrane, something like parchment, but more pliable. This forms the outer wall, as it were, of the chamber of the eye; it may be compared to the cup of an acorn, or to a still more familiar

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