- >■■■ , ! ' '■ '■■ /O ! LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. cha P . ..:£>&.&&'& Shelf ..'-(^^ST^ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, j POEMS DRAMATIC AND MISCELLANEOUS. 3 ® CHARLES JAMES CANNON, m AUTHOR OF " THE POET'S QUEST," " THE CROWNING HOftR," driven At will of the storm, were they scattered before Thee ! O then in thanksgiving, with loud exultation, Our song ■will we raise for a nation delivered ! Our temples and homes have escaped profanation ; And tyranny's might like a reed has been shivered ! K1ZZI0. 11 ACT SECOND. Scene I. — The Queen's Apartment in Holyrood. The Queen is seated with a lute in her hand; Mary - Seaton standing a little behind, and the rest of her ladies at work around her. The Queen rises and gives the lute to Mary Seaton. Queen. Here, take it hence, good Seaton, take it hence. The instrument is sadly out of tune ; And, sooth to say, so is the player too. And yet have I done little else than sing These two days past ; and still the selfsame song, A simple thing, but, O ! so full of sadness, That I have felt my heart ache, and mine eyes Run o'er with bitter drops, as I repeated Its melancholy burthen. Didst thou mark it 1 The song was Chatelard's. Poor murdered Chatelard ! Murdered by her he loved with such devotion ! Mary Seaton. My gracious mistress, what wild words are these 1 The laws, and not your Grace, condemned the youth For his bold crime. Queen. Yes, Seaton, they condemned. But I it was, more merciless, that gave Unto the headsman's axe, a gentleman 12 HIZZIO. Of rarest qualities ; who was the peer, In all that should confer nobility, To any lord in Scotland. And for what? Why the poor crime of loving one who hath, Heaven knows, but few to love her. Mary S. Dear my mistress, It was the second time he had offended, And therefore could you not have pardoned him, Without strong condemnation of your people, As truly said your brother. Queen, {impatiently). O my brother ! A precious brother hath he been to me ! And one so chary of my peace and honour, That he would not have any one approach me Who loves me not as he does. And how great His love is for me, let his late attempt Against my power, if not my life, bear witness. I would not boast, that, by a sister's love, My father's son was raised, from simple prior, To rank amongst the noblest of the land. Yet sure for this I might expect return More meet, than treason to the throne our father Made my inheritance ? O girl ! I would We were again in our beloved France, Though of her lowliest children, that we might Find hearts to guard us in the hour of peril. Dost thou remember, as we left her shores, The home-bound bark that, having 'scaped the dangers 13 Of many seas, went down in sight of land 1 I bade thee mark it for an augury ; — And such it proved. Upon my native coast Perished the hopes wherewith my heart was freighted. Mary S. Most noble lady ! let not the misdeeds ' Of those poor traitors daunt your royal spirit. Queen. Alas, dear girl, had all my subjects risen To hurl me from my rightful throne, I would My fate have met, as should a Christian woman, With resignation. But than Murray's treason, Were that successful, worse immeasurably Is the conviction, that the man preferred To all the chivalry of Christendom, Whom I have loved — and fear I still do love — With love amounting to idolatry, Ne'er sought me for myself, but as the means Of his advancement. But what folly 's this ? Heed not my words, good wench, I am not well, And oft the mind is by the body's suffering Made feeble. See, the lute is in thy hand. Then wake the spirit that abides therein, And waft me on the wings of music back To sunny France, and girlhood's merry morn. Romance. — Mary Seaton. The Lily of Provence, of maidens the flower, The fair Isabel has come down from her bower, Her beads at the shrine of Our Lady to tell, For sad is the heart of the fair Isabel. 14 tuzzio- Long, long months agoue, they have years been to Iilt. To wrest from the Paynirn the Lord's sepulchre, Young Victor vent forth, yet has nought come to tell, If lives he or not to the fair Isabel. " Our morning is clouded," at parting he said, " And yet, lady mine, is the sun overhead ; As he will the darkness around us dispel, Shall joy chase the grief of my fair Isabel." But darker the heavens as older the day, Till hope spread her wings and flew far, far away. When, blighting as frost on young flowerets, fell Despair on the heart of the fan - Isabel. Yet morning and evening she failed not to go To chapel, some respite to seek from her wo, But her beads, as she counted, unceasingly fell Hot tears from the eyes of the fair Isabel. She kneels down in sorrow, but raising her eyes. To the sweet face above her, beholds with surprise A smile on those lips whence no word ever fell, That thrills to the heart of the fair Isabel. And lo ! a poor Palmer, whose cheek has grown brown 'Neath the suns of the East, by the maiden kneels down. She starts ! But a glance every doubt doth dispel. 'Tis Victor returned to his fair Isabel ! Queen. Thanks, gentle spirit, thou hast exorcised The moody fiend that had possession of me. Now will I to my couch. An hour's repose, And I'll return and play the thrifty housewife. (Exit Queen, leaning on Mary Beaton. Scene II. — An Antechamber. Hii.aike enters and walks listless/// up and down, ffilaire. I am so wear) of this life of mine ! 15 Fasting and prayer without and brawls within Are hut ill suited to my temperament. The city is in sackcloth, and the preachers Of the new faith, like men half lunatic, In kirk and market-place are bellowing forth Denunciations of the sweetest lady That e'er had the misfortune to be born A queen among barbarians ; And the king — ■ Alas, that one so fair should be so weak As set her heart upon a thing like him ! — Has made a purgatory of the palace, Where we, poor wretches, doubtless for our sins, Are doomed each hour to suffer some new penance. O that I were a bird, how quickly I Would spread my wings and hie me back to France Enter Mary Seaton. Sweet Mary ! gentle mistress ! thou to me Art welcome as the sun to the chilled earth Of this rude clime : for truly, lady mine, My heart is almost frozen by the breath Of this ungenial court, and, only that It feels at times the warmth of thy bright eyes, Would stiffen into ice. Mary S. Prithee, Sir Page, Leave compliment, until I shall find leisure To thank thee for the pains which thou hast taken, To cull the flowers some other hand has reared, To veave a chaplet for mine humble brow, 10 RIZZIO. Hilaire. Some other hand has reared 1 Nay, scornful lady, The flowers I offer ne'er had other culture Than mine : — the native growth of my own heart. Mary S. 'Tis wondrous that such goodly crop should spring From soil so sterile. But we'll let that pass. It is her Grace's order, for an hour No one shall break upon her privacy, As she, heart sick and weary, asks that time For needful rest. Hilaire. Her will shall be obeyed. Mary S. And mark ; not even the king must be admitted. Hilaire. Nor king nor emperor, when she forbids, Shall trespass on her ; and, had I her warrant To keep Lord Darnley ever from her presence, I'd do it at the hazard of my life ! Mary S. You do not love the king 1 Hilaire. Love him ? Who does % Mary S. The Queen. Hilaire. I'll not believe it. Love and hate Might dwell in the same heart for the same object. But not contempt and love. By this the queen Has found her senses, and must see how worthless The idol is that she set up for worship, Because its outside pleased her, and must scorn it, With all who know the paltry thing it is. Love him ? She cannot. And 'twas truth you said, RIZZIO. 17 That I do love him not ; and wish I were A man, and peer to him, that with my sword I might chastise him, for the cruel wrongs He heaps upon the kindest heart that beats. Mary S. Bravo, Sir Sparrow ! If this humour hold From sun to sun, and thou dost show it freely To others as to me, so that the king Become acquainted with it, thou wilt chance To win a bloody coxcomb for thy crest. Hilaire. Better a bloody coxcomb than a heart Whose blood another's wrongs can never warm. I shall not always be a boy, and when - Mary S. Thou hast a beard upon thy chin, I hope Thou 'It have more prudence, or wilt get it plucked. Hilaire. T'were a bold hand that would essay it, lady. Mary S. No doubt, Sir Valiant. But behold the king. He comes this way ; and on his fevered brow I trace the marks of yesternight's debauch, Despite the solemn fast the kirk ordained. Do not forget the orders of the queen. (Exit. Hilaire. That will I not. Places himself before the door of the queen's apartment. Darn- ley enters hurriedly and attempts to^pass him, which Hilaiiie prevents. Damley. Give place ! Hilaire. The queen commands ; No one shall be admitted to her chamber For one hour's space. 18 R1ZZI0, Darnley. The queen commands l . The Kiny. To whom the queen, thy mistress, owes obedience. Now bids thee stand aside, and let him pass. Hilaire. Indeed, my lord, I cannot. Darnley. Cannot, sirrah % If thou regard'st thy safety, stand aside. Hilaire. I stand here in obedience to the queen, And, save by her command, will not give way To any man, though he were twice a king. Darnley. What ! wouldst thou brave me ? Hilaire. I but do my duty. Darnley. So will I mine. Darnley seizes Hilaire, and thrusting himr udely aside, is about to pass into the chamber, when the door opens and the Queen appears. Queen. Back ! back, unmannered brawler ! Hast thou so little reverence for our person, As play the rumer in our very presence 1 What, is it you, my lord 1 I cry you mercy ! I thought one of the base, disloyal rout. Who clothe sedition in the garb of truth, In imitation of their leader Knox, Had come to brave his sovereign in her palace. What has betid to chafe my lord the king, That he should vent his rage upon a boy % Darnley. Why did you bid your minion bar my way ? Queen. I wished a short, repose — Heaven knows I need it! RIZZIO. 19 Pass thou into my chamber. (To IIilaike, who obeys with evident reluctance?) Well, my Lord, What is your gracious pleasure ? Is there aught Left to the powerless queen of this poor realm That she may grant, to show a wife's obedience 1 Darnley. Let us pass in. This is no place to urge The suit on which I come. Queen. The old one still Against the Hamiltons 1 Wherever urged That suit must be denied. Darnley. It is not that. Queen. O then, whate'er it is, I pray you now Defer it. I'm not well. My temples throb ; My heart beats wildly, and a torturing pain Pierces my side. Go, leave me for an hour ■ — Nay, half an hour ; — you'll surely grant me that 1 It is not much ; — then come with your demand, And I will listen to it. Darnley. I'll not stir, 'Till you have heard, and granted my request. You call me King. In every other land The King doth wear a' crown ; — yet have I none, Although on you, and not the Parliament, As you have urged, it doth depend to place Upon my brow that sign of royalty, Which will become me quite as well, I ween, As him who wore it last — the puny Francis. 20 RIZZIO. Queen. Th&puny Francis — Heaven be his rest! More royal in his nature than his birth, Asked not the trappings of the kingly office To prove himself a king. The crown he wore Was well bestowed ; — he honoured it in wearing. When next you come to ask a favour, sir, Try, 'till 'tis granted, to forbear an insult. \ Retires into the chamber. Darnley. But hear me, Madam. Death ! she will not hear ! But treats me like a froward boy ; — a slave Born for her service. I will not endure it ! I am her husband, and will wring her heart, Or she shall own me master. Enter George Douolas. Well encountered, Most worthy cousin. To behold a face That doth not scowl, or smile in scorn upon me, Is now so rare, that I would welcome it, Though 'twere a Frenchman's. But when such as yours — A countryman's — for, though my earliest breath Was drawn in England, I'm in heart a Scot — Wears its old look of kindness, I would fain The owner of it grapple to my heart, And have him grow there. O I am most wretched ! George D. Wretched, my lord ? If you, upon whose head Hath fortune shed her favours, can be wretched, EIZZIO. 21 What hope of happiness for such as 1 1 What hidden grief thus moves my lord the king % Damley. I pray thee, do not league with those who mock me. George D. Mock you, my liege 1 Damley. Why did you use a word So void of meaning when you spake to me % George D. What word, my lord 1 Damley. The title that you gave me. George D. Is it not yours 1 You are the king — Damley. In name. A king in name, good cousin ; — nothing more. The page, that flies to do her Highness' will At motion of her finger, is a king In power as much, nay more, by Heaven ! than I. George D. This should not be. Why chose the queen a husband, But for the aid of some strong hand to wield The sceptre she unable was to hold 'I And, if you are to share the toils and pains Of government, 'tis right you share the power. Damley. This have I urged upon her, but in vain ; Although her royal word, when first we wed, Was pledged to give me what she now refuses. George D. She did not always, then, refuse the crown That should invest you with the power of king, Which, as her husband, clearly is your right ? 22 rizzio. Darnley. No, not 'till late. George I). Then she has changed her mind ; — That's something not unusual in her sex ; — Or may, perhaps, have been thereto advised By some one near her person, not your friend. Darnley. I think not that ; and yet it may be so. But who 1 Were Murray still at court, indeed Suspicion might have one on whom to rest. George D. And yet there may be one nearer than Murray, Argyle or Hamilton, even less your friend Than those misguided nobles. Look around, And see, among her Highness' ministers, If there be any unto whom she turns For counsel ever. Darnley. None — save Rizzio ; And he is most my friend. Why do you smile ? George D. But at an idle fancy. Some have hinted— I know not what the ground of their surmise, Most likely none — that Rizzio has used The power which he possesses o'er the queen — How got appears not — for his own advancement, Rather than for her interest or honour. This do 1 say have people hinted ; and I thought, when now your Grace so confidently Called him your friend, how easy 'tis for men, Who do not see the cards the players hold. To fancy knavery in a same thai': fair. RIZZIO. 2o Because the winning still is on one side. This Rizzio has been a lucky player, Damley. Douglas, be open with me. Do you think The queen's refusal of my late requests — (Attainder of the Duke of Chatelherault, By which the Hamiltons shall be forever Barred of the right they claim to the succession, After the Stuarts, to the throne of Scotland, And for myself the Matrimonial Crown) — Was prompted only by a woman's humour, Or this adventurer ? If I thought the latter, I'd make him rue all meddling with his betters. George D. Then, to be open, I and many others, Friends to your Grace, believe this nameless stranger To be the creature of the Guises, who Would govern through the queen, their niece, this realm, As they already govern France ; and fearing The influence of a husband, seek to weaken The bond of true affection, that should bind The wedded pair, whose strength is confidence ; And for this end, the wily Piedmontese, By specious arguments, leads on her Highness To act in all things counter to your wish. Our reasons will I give for this belief At large, if you will walk aside with me, Beyond the reach of listeners. Darnley {talcing the arm of George D.) Readily. (Exeunt 24 Rtzzio. ACT THIRD. Scene — Rizzio's Chamber, adorned with pictures, and with books on shelves. A table in the centre, on which are thrown books, manuscripts, and musical instruments, Rizzio is discovered writing. He rises and comes for- ward. Rizzio. My heart is strangely sad. In vain have I, By giving occupation to the mind, Sought from my bosom to divert the weight That presses on it. But it will not be ! Some adverse power is surely hovering o'er me, Which fills the air with mystery and dread, And sinks the hopeful spirit, that 'till now Has borne me bravely up against all fortunes, Despite of reason, down into the depths Of cold despair ! Why this is wonderful ! The real present hath th' uncertainty That troubles us in dreams ; the future lies Before me, like the ocean clothed in night, And pale, sad visions of the buried past Come, to upbraid my long forgetfulness Of the dear land, which, tempted by ambition, I did abandon for the sterile north. O Italy ! Beloved Italy ! rizzio. 25 The home of learning, genius, beauty, Faith, That still, though fallen from thine high estate, Make thee the mistress of the universe ! So closely have all memories of thee Entwined themselves with powers of heart and brain, Whate'er my efforts to attain to greatness, They pluck me backwards to the lowly vale Of poverty, where dwelt my humble sires, More wise than their descendant. O this humour Will sink me into second childishness Enter Hilaiee. My merry friend, thou art right welcome. Hilaire. Nay, You name me not aright. I am not merry, Nor shall be e'er again, I fear, good signior. Rizzio. Why, what has hap'd to damp thy mirthful spirit ? Hilaire. What daily haps. I see my mistress wronged, And cannot right her. See her baited by A currish pack, yet have my hands tied down That I may not so much as cast a stone. While he) who should be foremost in her cause, Stands idly by, and lets them work their will. She never stirs abroad she is not met By some invention of her demon-subjects, In which her heart is wounded through her faith ; And, the Reformers have such zeal for Truth, 2 26 rizzio. They will not suffer her to pray in peace, But thrust themselves between her and her God, Rizzio. Alas, poor lady ! my heart weeps for her ! Hilaire. And well it may. Yet we, with Heaven to aid r Will place her where their malice cannot reach her. Upon a throne begirt with honest hearts. Rizzio. Then 'twill not be an earthly throne, my boy. But dost thou bring no message from our mistress 1 Hilaire. O yes. She bade me say, that in an hour She will expect you in her cabinet. Rizzio, I will attend. Hilaire. Signior, I kiss your hands. Exit. Rizzio. Light, but true heart, adieu. Enter Sir Jajies Melvilu My dear Sir James, Though always welcome, you are now most welcome ; For you will help me drive away a sadness — A stranger to my nature — that unbidden Hath come to take up his abode with me. Sir James. Alas, good signior, I am sore afraid That what I have to say, will but confirm The residence of him you would dislodge. Rizzio. Nay, look not on me with that rueful visage, Or I will think you gifted with a power, Oft boasted by your countrymen, of seeing What yet the future hides from common eyes. Sir James. Then you would wrong me. But, to one who knows rizzio. 27 His native clime, the cloud, that to a stranger Would seem a speck, foretells the coming tempest. There's danger lurking near you. Rizzio. Danger % Sir James. Yes. I have seen that in Morton, though he seem Your friend, which bodeth evil. In his blood Is hatred to the name of Favourite ; And he-, though won by highest merit, who Hath been the foremost in his sovereign's love, Has ever in the Douglas found a foe. Besides, the king, by every impulse swayed , Who, for the services you rendered him With our good queen, at first such large professions Did make of gratitude, now openly Proclaims his enmity, because he thinks Your influence is exerted to debar Him of his right — the Matrimonial 'Crown. Rizzio. I thank you, good Sir James, but needed not The hint your kindness prompted you to give, To know I stand upon a precipice. So must he ever who, no matter how The height was reached, has made his way to power. And know, too, that a breath may cast me down. But knowledge of my danger brings no fear Of what may hap. The Douglas loves me not. That know I well ; and well am I content To have his hate, while I deserve it not. 28 RIZZIO. And, for the anger of the facile king, I'll bear that too, so long as it shall hinder No work of mine to make my mistress happy. Sir James. But in your ruin is the queen's involved Rizzio. The queen's in mine 1 I pray you, tell me how ? Sir James. The jealousy of Darnley has been roused, By hints, that o'er his wife you exercise The influence of a lover. Rizzio. Monstrous charge ! She — one endowed with every perfect gift; That heaven bestows upon its favourites — Lavish the priceless treasure of her love On such as I % Without the charm of youth, Or manly form, or any of those graces That woman's eye delights in % She love me ? My wildest wish ne'er soared to such a height. Sir James. You do not speak like one who does not, love. Rizzio. I spake of her, not of myself; for 'twere Indeed unmanly — monstrously ungrateful — In any one that should not love a mistress, Who, passing by his lowliness of birth, Had, for the talents that she deemed were his, Above the titled and the highborn raised him, To be the sharer of her confidence, As in her sovereign bounty she hath me. But O ! the love I bear her is as holy As the. pure flame, enkindled by devotion. Rizzro. 29 tn the pale anchoret's chastised heart, Where all of grosser nature is consumed, By fire like that which touched the prophet's lips. And, counselled by that love, I still have striven To render her the happiest, as the best, Of earthly queens ; to make in other lands Her name respected, and secure at home Her people's love — the only certain "basis Whereon to build a throne. Well, if for this, I have made foes where I might look for friends, I am content. And if they seek my life, Though not disposed to cast it rashly from me, Because I hold it for another's service, Yet, sooner than to turn aside when duty Marks out my path, they shall be welcome to it. Sir James. Though I must grieve that you contemn my counsel, I cannot but admire your true devotion To our poor queen, who ill can spare a friend In times like these, when he, who should protect her 'Gainst harm, doth load her with indignities, To which the meanest of her sex would not Submit with patience. Rizsio. That I e'er advised The union of a being so exalted With one of Darnley's base and grovelling nature, Is what of all that I have done of evil I most repent me ; and, in punishment 30 RIZZIO. Of this one fault, were there no other cause, Offer my breast a targe for every shaft The hatred of the man, whose hand I armed With power to hurt, may aim at hers. Sir James. Brave friend ! Though I can never hope to emulate Your loyalty of spirit, I cannot Eefuse to it the homage of my heart. Rizzio. Nay, nay, Sir James, you shall not wrong your- self. I know — so does the queen — on Scottish ground There does not tread a man than you more loyal, Or one who sooner would, at risk of all, Stand by his sovereign in the hour of peril. Sir James. 'Tis kindly said, and truly ; and I thank you. And so will take my leave, almost content That I have sped so ill. Signior, farewell. Rizzio. Farewell, good friend, farewell. Exit Sir James. 'Twas very kind Of the good knight, to caution one of danger Whose rise to power, could hardly fail to wake, In hearts least envious, feelings of dislike Against the stranger, who possessed the place A native subject might as well have filled ; And one less noble would have turned aside And let the evil come unheralded. BIZZIO. Si Twas a most kind, indeed, but needless caution. Enter Daniot. Well, father? Daniot. Well ? Nay, son, it is not well ; — But evil — sudden, dark and terrible ! Rizzio. What dost thou mean ? Daniot. I have beheld the future, Even as a scroll, writ o'er with words of fire, Unrolled before me, where I saw the doom That will — unless by speedy flight averted — O'ertake thee suddenly. That doom is Death ! A Blood? Death ! — yet not what brave men seek ; — But one of ruffian violence. O fly ! Rizzio. From what 1 ? A phantom, which the o'er- wrought brain Hath conjured up, to leave behind a name Dishonoured 1 ? — one that shall in aftertimes Become another word for Cowardice % But whither fly 1 Is there a spot of earth Death has not made his own 1 And if, by flying From her who hath a claim even to my life, I for the present shall elude this Death, Must I not meet him in the distant land To which I go % Then here will I abide, Unless thou prov'st to me, my gracious queen Shall find another who will serve her better When I am gone. But, prithee, whence this danger Thou deem'st so imminent and terrible % 32 rizzio. Daniot. The name of him. whose hand shall deal the blow Against thy life, appeared not in the scroll : And only this I saw, that he is one Who boasts a lofty name ; whose ancient blood Is from a princely source ; but on whose brow A mother's shame hath left a mark so deep It cannot be effaced. Rizzio. The traitor Murray ! But what have I to fear from him, whose sword, Though from Dumfries it reach to Edinbro' Can harm not me ? For while I hold my place, He ne'er shall tread this soil ; whose greatest curse Has been to nourish reptiles, like to this, That sting her in the hour of confidence. Daniot. Yet be advised, my son. Rizzio. Unto what end ? if honour must or safety be endangered, Let me secure mine honour, and the other Must fare even as it may. I thank thee, father ; But cannot take thy counsel. Daniot. Then farewell ! I leave thee with a heart weighed clown with sorrow. For, ah ! I know the hour of doom is nigh ! Going. Rizzio. Yet one word more. Nay, not of him whose fate, Howe'er fulfilled, in glory nr in shame, mzzio. 33 Save in the bosoms of a nameless few, Shall ne'er in human heart awake emotion Of gladness or of grief. Mine is a name Writ on the sandy margin of the sea, Which the next wave must wash away forever. But didst thou nothing in that scroll, in which Thou read'st my future, of the destiny Of her behold, who shall in story live, When death has given back to mother earth The fairest form that e'er sprang from her bosom — My glorious mistress ? Daniot. Would these aged eyes Had been forever closed, ere they beheld The page unfolded stained with Mary's fate ! Sorrow and shame ! — flight and imprisonment ! Long years of anguish ; and a bloody death ! Were written there ! Rizzio. Out, out upon thee, raven I I'll hear no more of thy dark prophecies, Or my weak voice will rise against high heaven, Its justice to arraign ! Away ! away ! Throwing himself into a seat and covering his face with his hands. Exit Daniot sorrowfully. 2* 34 ACT FO l'I!TH. Scene t. — Morton's Apartment in Holyrood. Morton, Ruthven and Lindsay discovered seated at a table, loithpapers before them. They rise and come forward. Morton. We must have Murray back, or all our laboiirs, The gospel light to spread through this poor realm, Where moral darkness long hath reigned supreme. Have been in vain. Ruthven. A truce to cant, my lord. Knox is not by, nor will these walls repeat Our secret conference, that we make a show Of zeal for truth*, when we have but one object- Though wisely hidden from the public view — Our own advancement on another's ruin. But you say true, — we must have Murray back, Or Mary, with her gracious words and smiles. Whose power there's nought too rugged to withstand., Winning the hearts of the unstable people To their old faith and ancient loyalty — Whose clamour for ' ; Lord James and the Evangil" Will last while interest tunes their venal threats, No longer — will become too strong for us, And ravel all our web. We must, indeed, Have Murray back. rizzio. 35 Lindsay. But how ? Morton. Right easily. The king is now at variance with the queen ;— Ruthven. With her, or some one, is he every day. Morton. Who pleased no longer with his goodly person, — Ruthven. {scornfully.) His goodly person ! By my faith, I think 'Twould not have been so hard this side the Tweed To find a husband for our dainty lady, That she should send to England for a mate, Were goodliness of person all she sought. Lindsay. But you forget ; — you were not free to wed. Ruthven. I thought not of myself ; — nor any present. Morton, {not heeding them.) And weary of the antics he has played, Since she bestowed on him the hand was sought By men whose deeds were princely as their birth, Told him, but yestereve, she'd ne'er consent, That he should wear the Matrimonial Crown, The latest bauble he hath set his heart on. Now of this molehill will we make a mountain, That shall forever separate these twain. Lindsay. But how shall this serve us? He is our kins- man, And one for whose advancement we have laboured. Morton. Most true. We thought he would be useful to us. 36 rizzio. And therefore aided him to reach a height To which his feeble genius ne'er had soared ; But whence, so dizzy now is his weak brain, He cannot help but fall ; yet, ere his fall, Good service may he do us. Ruthven. Prithee how 1 , Morton. Why thus, George Douglas — Lindsay, (to Ruthven.) Is it not a pity That George, who hath so much of Angus in him, Should have no title to his father's lands ? Had his fair, easy mother been the wife Of the stout Earl, old " Bell the Cat" had yet Survived in his descendant. Ruthven. (aside to Lindsay.) You forget How much would that diminish Morton's power, Who now is guardian to the youthful heir. Lindsay, (aside to Ruthven.) Ah, well remembered. Morton. As I said, George Douglas, Well tutored for the part he had to play, Has added fuel to the furious flame Already kindled in the breast of Darnley, By hinting, that some secret enemy, One of the many creatures near the queen, Has been the cause of his discomfiture. And this doth he believe, without reflecting, How shamefully has he abused the kindness That raised him to his present noble station, Which must have quenched in any woman's heart rizzio. 37 Whate'er of love her fancy might have kindled, And make her wary how she yields her power To one who would not fail t' abuse it. Well, Whom, think ye, do we make this secret foe ? Ruthven. Huntley, perhaps, or Bothwell, or — Lindsay. Th' Archbishop. Morton. No. One who stands more in our way than these, Though they are there. Her Grace's Secretary. Ruthven and Lindsay. What ! Rizzio 1 Morton. The same. Lindsay. He will not surely Distrust the man who was his firmest friend, When first he came a wooing to the queen ? Morton. He ivas his friend ; but that he is I doubt, This man hath all the shrewdness of his nation, And seeing the unfitness of the king — As we must call him — properly to wield The power at which he grasps, and looking solely To the advancement of his mistress' interest, With which his own is intimately woven, Most wisely, if not honestly, hath used His influence with the queen, to make her keep In her own hands the reins of government. This has it been the business of George Douglas On Darnley to impress ; who, for this reason, Will lend his aid to pluck the Favourite down. It follows then : — He will detach himself 38 Rizfcio. .From the queen's cause, for hers and Rizzio's Are one, and must come o'er to us ; while wo Will promise largely to secure to him All that his heart now craves, on these conditions ; — » The pardon and recall of Murray, and Those who were with him in the late rebellion, With the establishment, now and forever, Of our pure Faith — excluding every other. Lindsay. I do not see how this can aid our cause. What power hath Darnley, that he might stand up Against the Favourite, whose subtle brain Is ready at expedients 1 Morton. He has none, If still that brain were left to plot against him. But Rizzio must die — and die at once — By Darnley's act, if not by Darnley's hand. This deed, which quenches the last spark that smoulders Among the ashes of the queen's affections, Will leave to him no choice of friends. He must, For his own safety, make our cause his own. Ruthven. My lords, I've little skill at plots. My leisure, Though I have had for mischief no disrelish, Has found far other uses ; for I hold, With him of old — '-To live is to enjoy.' 1 — And therefore have I wisely given to pleasure The time you statesmen waste in court intrigues. Yet, though I may do little with my brain, I have a hand — a little weakened now* fcizzio. 89 By illness — still can wield a sword ; and here I pledge both hand and sword to any service My country may require. Whether to fight Her enemies abroad, or strike clown traitors Within her borders. And that Rizzio Is traitor to her interests — or to ours, Which means the same — admits not of dispute. So in his fall, if that his fall be bloody, Count ye upon my aid. Morton. It will be useful ; And soon it may be needed. JRuthven. None too soon. Lindsay. Here comes the king. Morton. And in good time : nor hence Shall he depart till we have made him ours. Enter Daenlet and George Douglas. Your Grace is welcome. Darnley. Thanks, my good lord chancellor. I'm glad (to But/wen) to see you on your feet again, Good uncle mine. How (to Lindsay) fares my noble kinsman '? Lindsay. Eight well, I thank your Grace. Darnley. (seating himself.') Our cousin here Hath spoken to me of a little business You have in hand, for which my help is needed. You've but to name it to command my service. Morton. The business that we have concerns your Grace Far more than any here. 40 RIZZIO. Darnley. I'm sorry for it. 'Twould please me better could my humble means Be useful to the State, or you, my lords, Or any of the friends of our loved Scotland, Rather than to myself, that I might show How deep is my devotion to the weal Of this dear land. Morton. In this you serve us all. So closely are our interests united, That what is done for you is done for Scotland, And every loyal son that calls her mother. Whene'er the sovereign is debarred his rights — As, to our shame be't said, your Grace hath been— Then must the realm, of which he is the head, Suffer great wrong, and all good subjects with it. In short, my lord, it is our firm resolve To place you in the seat from which too long You have been kept by a presuming stranger, And make you — not alone in name — but fact A King ! George Douglas. By Heaven ! it is a burning shame, That we so patiently have bowed our necks To bear the yoke which foreign enemies, By the Italian's hands, have laid upon us ! For that the queen is governed by her kinsmen, Lorraine and Guise, those foes to Truth and Scotland, By means of Rizzio, no one here can doubt : And, if we would not see our country made nnzto. 41 A fief of France, and the great truths which Knox — That holy man, whom slanderous tongues would call A bold perverter of God's sacred word ! — Has laboured to establish, set at naught, We must arise and hurl the evil-doer From the proud eminence on which he stands, Buthven. Death ! death ! to the intruder ! Lindsay. Instant death ! Morton. What says your Grace to this ? Darnley. (rising.) So let it be. With his own hands hath he wrought out his doom ; And he shall die ! Morton. The means ? Darnley. Of that anon. Morton. Then if your Grace will meet us here to night* About the hour of ten, whate'er our plans, We will submit them to you. Darnley. {taking the arm of Geo. D.) I'll not fail. Farewell. ' Come, cousin, we'll walk back together. Exit with George Douglas. Morton. Now I'll to Lethington, whose hand hath framed A bond, to which, ere move we one step farther, The king shall place his name for Murray's pardon, And all things else that we require of him. Exeunt severally. 42 Scene II. — The Queen's Cabinet. The Queen sleeping on a couch. Mary Seaton seated at work by her side. Queen, (in her sleep,") Hold, Murray, hold ! I am your queen — your sister ! Then yield me not a prey to yon fell monster. Henry, my husband, stand you there, and see This wrong committed 'gainst your wife, nor raise A hand in her defence? O shame upon you ! Take off these chains ! I am a free born woman, And will not thus be treated. Is there none To strike one blow for Scotland and for Mary ? Springing to her feet- A Stuart, ho ! a Stuart ! to the rescue ! Brave Huntley ! loyal Seaton ! nobly done ! Ha, ha ! a dream 1 A dream 1 Thank heaven a dream ! Mary Seaton. Your Grace hath been so troubled, that I longed To break your sleep, but knew not how to do it, So much I thought you stood in need of rest. Queen. Alas, my girl, there is no rest for me, Whose waking ills — and they, as heaven can witness, Are not a few — are multiplied in sleep. Even now I dreamed I was in Murray's power ; Who, having bound me like a criminal, Had cast me at the feet of England's queen, That seemed no woman, but a fearful gorgon, iuzzio. 43 Whose baleful glance would turn one's heart to stone. Heaven ! my blood is frozen at the thought ! And while I writhed in agony before her, The king stood by and at my sufferings mocked. Tell me, old playmate, how would you interpret A dream like this 1 Think you, it bodes no evil % Mary Seaton. As much of good or evil as a phantom, By fancy raised to fill the throne, that reason Has for a time left vacant, can of either : — And that is nothing. Queen. Well, it may be so. And yet that dream has filled me with strange fears, As if it had been sent by Heaven to warn me Of some new evil. Then may Heaven endue me With strength to bear what cannot be averted. If Rizzio wait without, go bid him enter. He must decide my course. Mary Seaton steps to the door, and returns followed by Rizzio. Welcome, my friend. Rizzio. Your Grace's lowliest servant. Queen. My best friend. Tor there is none to whom, in hours like this, 1 can for honest counsel turn but thee. Seaton, make fast the door by which the king Steals on us oft. We'll have no interruption. Mart Seaton bolts the door opening upon the private passage, and then stands apart. You know the strait in which I now am placed. 44 Rizfcio. Advise me how to act. I find my husband In league -with those who ask me to recall Tiaa^bamshed lords ; — and my affections too Cry out for pardon of the rebel Murray ; — Yet clemency to them would be to offer Reward for treason. From this amnesty, Which he demands, he would howe'er except The Hamiltons. Not that they are more guilty — - Indeed far less — than Murray and the rest ; But lest they should one day dispute with him The throne that, as my heir, he hopes t' ascend. Rizzio. Grant Heaven he may grow old nursing that hope, Yet never find it more than hope to him. A noise is heard at the door of the secret passage, and then a loud knock. Damley. (without.) Within there, ho ! Open, I say ; and quick ! Mary Seaton. (advancing.) It is the king. Queen. It is. What then 1 I said We'd have no interruption ; and we will not. When weary waiting he will go again. The queen is now in conference with her minister. Mary Seaton retires. The knockings are repeated with much violence, and then cease. What shall I do % I would be merciful. Both as a woman and a Christian, yet Must, as a queen, be just : and if I grant RIZZIO. 45 Mercy to some, which I deny to others, To those I do except I am unjust, Rizzio. You are my liege. You must deny the king Both his demands. To bring the rebels home, Would but undo all that your Grace has done To bring back peace and order to the land, For Murray ne'er would rest to see another Possess the power he fancies should be his. And to attaint the Hamiltons, would be An act of gross injustice, which your people, Nor them alone, but every Christian nation, Would loud as such condemn. There'll be a time For mercy yet. Let justice now be done. Queen. It shall be so. I thank you for your counsel. It gives new vigour to my own resolve. I will not now detain you. But remember, We have some friends to sup with us at eight. You must be of the number. Until then, Farewell. Rizzio. Most proud shall I be to obey. Exit. Queen. Yes, justice shall be done. My husband's anger, So cruel and unsparing, must be braved ; The importunities of friends unheeded ; And the loud pleadings of my own weak heart Be silenced, while to the demands of justice I yield up strength and will. Oh this it is To be a queen ! To stand hedged round with foes. 46 rizzio. Without one loving heart to rest upon ; With scarce the hope of meeting, this side Heaven, One kind approving smile. Yet there, ay there I claim approval, if I but perform The duties of my state ; and that I may, I beg thine aid, O Queen of Holy Patience ! Kneels reverently before a picture of the Blessed Virgin. rizzio. 47 ACT FIFTH. Scene I. — Morton's Apartment in Holtrood. Morton, Euthven, Lindsay, and Sir Andrew Kerr grouped around a table, on which a parchment lies unrolled. Morton. What think ye of the bond % Lindsay. 'Tis strongly worded. Morton. And cunningly : for, while it crown and sceptre To Darnley gives, it places in our hands — What crown and sceptre poorly typify — True kingly power. The service which he deems Is prompted by our love and loyalty — Removing, even by bloody means, the one Who stands between his hopes and their fulfilment — He well repays, by calling home our friends, And placing on a basis too secure E'er to be shaken thence our Holy Kirk. Ruth'ven. (scoffingly.) O Holy Kirk ! that which is done for her The end must sanctify, whate'er the means ! Sir Andrew, think'st not so ? Sir Andreiv. (earnestly.) Ay, in good sooth, Even to blood-shedding. We with Rizzio The holy work begin, that not with him 48 rizzio. Shall end. Our cause — the cause of Truth and Justice — Demands a nobler sacrifice. Morton. Sir Andrew, Whate'er your thought, let it unspoken lie In your own bosom. 'Till they take the form Of words or deeds, no law our purposes Can construe into treason. What is that 1 Door in the centre opens at which the Queex appears. Queen. In vain, my lords, you hold these secret councils. Your plots are known, and, with the aid of Heaven, We will confound you yet. Retires and door closes. Lindsay. Was that the Queen? Ruthven. 'Twas the queen's voice ; but came and went the figure So suddenly, I know not if 'twere hers. Morton. Our game, my friends, is now for life or death. And we must play it out ; — nor that alone ; But play it quickly. In good time the king. Enter Darnley, who walks up and down the apartment in great agitation. Darnley. Wronged and insulted to my very face ! Morton. Is my lord ill 1 Darnley. (iiot heeding him.) A fire is in my hear! More fierce than that within Vesuvius, And must have vent, if blood do quench it not, Though it spread desolation o'er the land ! Morton, good, mv lord, what is it moves you thus ? mzzio. 49 Damley. What has ere now the hand of weakness nerved To grapple with and overthrow a giant — The Spirit of Revenge. The Queen — my wife- Hath played the wanton, in the face of day, With her false Secretary ! Heaven and earth ! That mine own hand upon my burning brow Should write this shame ! Ye look incredulous. Then hear and judge. An hour agone, George Douglas Came with the information, that this man Was with the queen. I sought her closet straight, And by the secret passage, as my wont. The door was barred — Lindsay. Then George had been deceived 1 Damley. That had he not. I heard their murmured voices ; A moment, but no more ; and all was hushed ; And, to my loud demand to be admitted, No answer was returned.- What think ye, sirs 1 Need any husband stronger proof than this Of his dishonour ? Lindsay. Faith, it looks not well % Damley. Not well, my lord 1 It looks the thing it is ;— A crime that blood alone can expiate. And since it is not lawful there to strike Where guilt is greatest, heavier shall fall My vengeance on the lesser criminal. He dies to-night ! 3 RIZZIO. Morton, {aside.) The very thing I wished, But scarce dared name ! {Aloud) Nay, not to-night, my lord. Thou gh we, with every honest heart in Scotland, Long for the moment we may surely crush The serpent that hath stung your peace and honour, Yet, in an enterprise so vast as this, We must take care to hazard nought by haste. It wants some hours still of the time we named To meet in consultation on the business You'd have us now dispatch ; and, till our friends Decide what shall be done, we can do nothing. Darnley. Why wait for hours to come to a resolve A minute can make perfect 1 My revenge Brooks no deliberation. He shall die. Morton. You have but to command, and it is done. But, that we be not by the world misjudged, And that which justice prompts not wrongly named The work of private malice, to a bond Well set our hands, in which, while we stand pledged To thrust aside all obstacles that bar You of your rights, whereof this Rizzio We deem the greatest far, you shall, as king,. Call home the banished lords, whose hearts are loyal To you and Scotland, whatsoe'er their faults. Such bond have we prepared for your approval And here — Darnley. {going to the table.) Then give it mo. I'll not so doubt RIZZIO. 51 Your love to me as question its conditions. He signs, followed by Morton and the rest. 'Tis done. Now for the course to be pursued. The Queen to-night doth entertain some friends, 'Mong whom is the Italian ; and, in presence Of her on whose protection he relies, Will we strike down the vile, adulterous traitor. Buthven. I like this much. It gives no time for pru- dence To urge deliberation, which in words Would waste the energy for action needed. If these consent, it shall be as you wish. Morton, ) Lindsay, > We are content. Sir Andrew. ) Darnley. My good Lord Chancellor, To you, who have in all things proved your wisdom, I leave the management of this affair ; And give to me whatever part you will In this night's business, with what power I have I will perform it. I must leave you now. Morton. You will not find us laggarts in your service. Exit Darnley. Ruthven. Was ever fish caught with a hook so baited 1 Of Rizzio jealous ! — old, ill-favoured Rizzio ! — When he might have for rivals gallant youths, The flower of all our young nobility ! Sir Andrew. Heaven knows I have no love for Mary Stuart, 52 rizziu. But not my hatred so could warp my judgment, As make me think her guilty of the crime The madness of this Darnley puts upon her. Yet, though we know her innocent, we must Against her act as if her guilt were proven, And thereby stronger make our hold upon The king her husband. Morton. Do not count, Sir Andrew, Upon the gratitude of one like Darnley, Who, serpent-like, now stings the trusting heart That warmed him into life. While hot his rage Against the queen, he's ours. But when that cools — As cool it must, for he is of a metal Too soft his present heat long to retain — He will be ours no longer. While we can, We must make use of him, to seize the power We aim at. That achieved, we need not care With whom he sides ; — with us or with our foes. Scene eloses. Scene II. — An Antechamber. Enter Hilatre. Hilaire. Would I were older, if 'twere but a year. A year ! Tis a long time ! I wonder now If in a year- -I then shall be sixteen — T shall have grown to !"- ; ty? Methinks this chin would well become a beard. And well I know, if such a thing I had, The maidens would not flout me as they do, And the sweet, saucy lip of Mary Seaton Would be less mocking when she speaks to me. Yet, if she would but look into this heart, She'd find as much, at least, of manly truth As may lie hid in a more burly form. I love my mistress, with as fervent love x\s ever warmed the bosom of a vassal — ■ Albeit I'm of hers no vassal born ; — And could I, by the forfeit of my life, Annul the bond that links her fate with Darnley's, Eight gladly should the penalty be paid. But O that cannot be ! Enter Mart Seaton. Marij Seaton. Prithee,Sir Page, What mighty subject has engrossed thy brain, That thou art sunk so deep in meditation % I'll wager now a groat, thou hast some project For reconciling Knox to Mother Church, And hastening the Millenium by a acore, Or two, of centuries. Hilaire. Nay, not quite that ; Though one almost as wild I've entertained. I have been thinking, 'twere quite possible To find in woman's mind the germ of reason, If one had patience to remove the crust 54 rizzio. Of folly, that prevents its shooting forth, And fairly had resolved to make the trial. Mary Sea ton. Bravo, sweet youth ! thy wit is nimble paced. But have a care it bear thee not too far, Or cast thee, by a sudden plunge, to earth, As I have seen unskilful horsemen served. If thou his learning hadst, as well as malice, Buchanan's self in thee might find a rival. Alack ! I fear there's something in the soil That nourishes the thistle, which the temper Sharpens far more than it improves the wit, Or thou, Hilaire, thy native courtesy Of speech and manner hadst not lost so soon. Hilaire. Ay, chide me if you will, but flout me not. For kindness oft is hid in a rebuke, While hatred, or — than hatred worse — contempt, Too frequently is found in raillery. Mary Seaton. Hilaire, my good Hilaire, what humour's this? Dost think that I would utter aught to wound The son of her who, when I was in France, Made me forget I had no mother there ? I'd rather that my tongue no more might wag — A heavy penance for my sex to bear ! — Than any word of mine should give thee pain. I hope thou art not angry ? (offering her hand.) Hilaire. {taking and kissing it.) If I were— 55 As I am not, nor have had cause to be — One word of yours, in the old tone of kindness, Could never fail to soothe my ruffled spirit. But, though not angry, I'm in no good humour. The life we lead in this strange court of late, Forever keeps my temper in a fret, And makes me wish, a thousand times a day, I had the power which fairies once possessed, That our dear queen, and you, and Rizzio, And a few others, at a word I might Transport to some fair island far away, Where broils and treasons have not even a name. Mary Seaton. Our life, I own, is not a pleasant one. But if we find it hard, what is't to hers Whose waking hours are filled with bickerings, And nightly dreams with forms of treachery 1 We yet enjoy the blessed privilege Of peaceful slumber. Hilaire. That we shall not long. Above the head of our devoted mistress, A storm is gathering that must burst full soon ; And all who love her then must suffer with her. Mary Seaton. O Daniot, that Prophet of Disaster, Has been with thee, and filled thee with his spirit. Away with it ; and do not let the queen, Who fain would have a merry hour to-night, As in the happy time of gentle Francois, 5S RIZZIO. Behold a cloud uii any brow she meets. Shall we go in 1 Hilaire. Lead on. I am your shadow, And must attend where'er you please to go. Exeunt. Scene III. — A Covin in Holyrood. Enter from one side Morton, Lindsay, Ruthven, in ar- mour, Sir Andrew Kerr and Soldiers, and from the other George Douglas. Morion, [to George Douglas.') Where is the king? George Douglas. He will be here anon. Morton. Does still his purpose hold 1 George Douglas. Yes, with my aid. I've kept him from the presence of his wife, Whose influence, in spite of fancied wrongs, I did not dare expose his weakness to ; And, lest the fire of anger should go out, I used my little skill to keep it burning. He's here. Enter Dabnlet. Morton. We wait the pleasure of your Grace. Darnley. To you, my lord, and not to me, belongs Control in this affair. I come to serve. Morton. Then, as time wears, we will proceed to action. You know your places all. My duty 'tis To guard the entrance to the palace. Yours, rizzio. 57 Sir Andrew Kerr, with such as you may choose, To keep strict guard upon the outlets, whence The traitors, now enclosed within these walls, Might find egress : and (to Lindsay and Ruthven) 'tis to you, my lords, "We leave the consummation of the work This night must see accomplished. Ruthven. When we meet, Whether it be in this world or the next, You shall not say I did mine bunglingly. George Douglas. With my assistance, backed by these stout fellows, There's nought you would have done shall be left undone. Darnley. But first I will precede you by a moment, To see if there be aught to bar our way To vengeance. Follow close ; and when ye hear " A Douglas ! to the rescue !" enter. Exit. Ruthven. Ay, Will we do so, with that cry or without it. And firm must be the obstacle indeed We cannot cut our way through. Let us on. Exeunt Morton, Kuthven, Lindsay, Sir Andrew Kerr, and George Douglas, in different directions, each followed by soldiers. 3* 58 rizzio. Scene IV. — The Queen's Cabinet. The Queen, Countess of Argyle, and Lord Robert Stuart at one of the tables : Mary Seaton, with ladies and gentlemen, at another. Beaton, Hilaire, and others in attendance. Rizzio, with a lute, is standing a little behind the Queen. SONG.— Rizzio. Since of time there's nothing ours, Save the present fleeting minute, Let us wreathe the cup with flowers, Bright as that which bubbles in it. And the eager spirit lave In the sparkling tide of pleasure, Ere by life's still ebbing wave Borne away is every treasure. For the flowers to-night we twine May be trod to earth to-morrow, And where molten rubies shine Glitter drops of bitterest sorrow. Queen. I like thy song, good David, though methinks It hath a tone of sadness, that accords With this good cheer, and our light conversation, Scarce better than would sound of passing bell With pipe and tabor at a marriage feast. This should not be, my friend. The flowers of joy, That we may snatch from Time's unwilling hand, Rizui). 59 Are all too few, and 0, by far too precious, For us to let the blight of melancholy Fall on their beauty. Rizzio. Sooth to say, sweet mistress, I knew not there was sadness in my song ; For none was meant. But as old age creeps on us, The spirit, losing hope, grows querulous, And turns unwittingly the strains of joy To sorrow's wail. I pray you pardon me. Queen. Pardon thee what % That at thy bidding comes not The spirit no One always can evoke % If this be crime, I fear I am not guiltless. For oft when to my heart I say, Be glad, The sturdy rebel mocks at my command, And fills mine eyes with sudden tears of grief. To Daknley, who enters by the secret passage. O, my good lord, I feared you would not come, To honour with your presence our poor supper. Why do you look so strange 1 All here are friends. Here is your place reserved. Making room for him by her side. Now let me help you. Damley. I cannot eat ; but I will drain a cup, In honour of the Mistress of the Feast, Takes a goblet from Beaton. And may her life be happy as her heart Is pure and loyal ; and, should dangers come, 60 R1ZZ10. May she be greeted by the cry, so weli Her fathers loved — " A Douglas ! to the rescue !" Enter Lindsay, Ruthven, and George Douglas, followed by soldiers, who fill the back of the scene. The attendants press forward in confusion. Ruthven, with a swaggering air, comes down to the table, and throws himself into a seat opposite the Queen. Queen, (rising with dignity?) What means this inso- lence % Ruthven. I come, your Grace, To render justice to that traitor there. Queen. Tis thou, bold lord, who art the traitor here. Bid this man hence. To Darnley, wh®, without heeding her, goes round to Ruthven. What, is it even so 1 Does he, who should protect, now side against me? 'Tis well ! Lord Ruthven, as you would avoid The penalty of treason, get thee gone. Ruthven. (rising.) I cannot go without my errand, Madam. Yield then the traitor. Queen, (placing herself before Rizzio.) Only with my life. Rizzio. (unsheathing his dagger.) Giustizia ! Giustizia ! Ruthven. (to Darnley.) Remove the Queen. Darnley attempts to remove the Queen, who still keeps her place before Rizzio. The soldiers press forward, and are driven back by the attendants. In the confusion that en- sues, George Douglas snatches the poniard out of Darn- ley's belt, and thrusting the Queen rudely aside, stabs Rizzio, who staggers forward and falls. Lindsay and the other conspirators, brandishing their swords, gather around him. Rizzio. (raising Jmnself and looking at George Douglas.) The Prophet's words were sooth. RIZZIO. 61 The wretch whose hand is reddened with my blood, Is he upon whose brow a mother's sin Has left the brand of shame. Queen, (breaking from Darnley and throwing herself by the side of Rizzio.) For me thou diest, O well beloved and most faithful servant ! And, whereso'er the wrongs of Mary Stuart Shall wake one throb of honest indignation, The memory of thy love and loyalty Shall call down blessings on thine honoured name. Rizzio, turning upon her a look of grateful affection, falls back and dies. THE COMPACT A MASK. CHARACTERS Carlos, a Vinedresser. Joanna, his mother. Inez, an orphan adopted by Joanna. Satan. Tempter. Attendants. Fiends. Almeyda. Julie. Dancers. Scene partly in Spain, partly in France, and partly in the Infer- nal Regions. THE COMPACT. Scene. — The interior of Joanna's cottage. Inez stand- ing at an open lattice, through which a hilly country is seen, covered with vines, and flushed with the rays of the setting sun. The sound of a distant hell is heard. Joanna enters unperceived. SONG.— Inez. Over hill and over valley- Gen tly floats the vesper chime, Bringing sadd'ning forms around me— Mem'ries of the olden time ! — When — the far uncertain future Hid then lay in golden haze — Two young hearts and voices blended In one song of love and praise. But that golden haze is scattered, And the path of life lies bare ; — Budding hopes, too fondly cherished, Now lie crushed and with'ring there ! 66 THE COMPACT. Well may I in sadness listen, When, as in the olden time, Over hill and over valley Gently floats the vesper chime ! Joanna. {Approaching her.) What ails thee, Inez ? Thou art sadly changed. Inez. To thee, dear mother ? O, indeed I am not. Joanna. Nay, not to me, my child, but to thyself. The joy of thy young heart bi*eaks forth no more In merry glance. The rose hath left thy cheek. Thy step, that was like skilful player's touch Upon the lute-string, now as heavy falls As foot of weary age ; and the gay laugh, Which did so oft to merriment provoke The echoes of this dull old house, is hushed, As if the mirthful spirit, that had given It utterance, was fled its earthly dwelling. Answer me truly, art thou ill ? Inez. O no. Joanna. 'Tis very strange, if thou indeed art well In body and in mind, a change so marked — Inez, (in alarm.) So marked ? By whom has it been marked 1 Joanna. By all. But Carlos most. Why tremble and turn pale ? No guilt hath stained the current of thy life — Inez, (earnestly.) O no. I thank my Guardian Angel ! no. But dearest mother, question me no farther. THE COMPACT. 67 Since first I came an orphan to thy dwelling — The child of thy adoption — till this hour, I ne'er have hidden from thee aught, and now Do only hide what maiden modesty Forbids me to reveal. But hark ! a step. 'Tis that of Carlos. Do not now detain me. Exit hurriedly. Joanna. ^Tis as I wished, yet scarcely dared to hope. And, ere I join my husband in the grave, One gleam of happiness this heart shall cheer, Shed from the love that doth unite my children. But hold. My wishes run too fast, and I Would gather fruit before the vine hath blossomed. That Inez loves my son I'm well convinced. But loves he her % I do not know that yet : But will, before my dreams another night Are troubled by the thoughts which long have haunted The chambers of my mind. And for my purpose Most timely doth he come. But how is this % Enter Carlos dejectedly, with his cap drawn over his eyes, and paces up and down the apartment, without appearing to notice his mother, who sits earnestly regarding him. Carlos. (To himself.) Kejected ! and with scorn ! The flower of hope, Which I so tenderly had nursed, trod down Into the dust by proud, remorseless Beauty ! Because, forsooth, her favours spiteful Fortune To me denies. She may not ever wed — (mimicking) She is not of an age to think much of it — <)S THE COMPACT. But if she should, 'twould be to place herself Among her equals. Equals was the word ! For well 'tis known, the blood that fdls her veins Is from a stream whence kings have drawn their life ; And he on whom she shall bestow her hand, Must not be only of a like descent, But one who can support with dignity The rank to which their birth entitles them. My name is humble ; — and my poverty Even greater than her own ; — she must decline With many thanks, the offer I intended ! And with a scornful toss of her proud head — But more than regal in its dazzling beauty ! — She left me, dumb with shame and indignation ! Joanna. What moves thee, Carlos? Come, and sit thee down, And tell thy mother what hath troubled thee. Carlos. O mother, ask me not ! My heart is crushed, And my brain reels in drunkenness of woe ! Joanna. (Rising.) O blessed saints, what has befallen the boy ? Carlos. Nay, dearest mother, do not let my grief Lead thee to fancy any serious ill Hath fallen on me. Though the blow was hard — Joanna. The blow 1 Carlos. I pray thee, do not be alarmed. The blow I spake of was from no man's hand ; But dealt by woman's pride. Almeyda's scorn THE COMPACT. (39 Hath hurt me sorely. But the wound, though deep, Will heal in time, I doubt not. Yet while green, 'Twill tax my patience to endure the smart. Joanna. How could the scorn of one so vain and heart- less Give pain to him who boasts the name of man 1 Carlos. Mother, I loved her. Nay, I love her still, Despite of reason and the pride of manhood, And must forever, though she o'er and o'er Should spurn the hand this eve was proffered to her. Joanna, {angrily.') What! would'st thou make that gilded toy thy wife ? Carlos. Make her my wife ? Had 1 the hidden wealth Of caves yet unexplored, in that far land Adventurers do tell of, at her feet Eight gladly would I lay it all, if she Would for the gorgeous gift accept the giver. But I am poor, and must not even hope ! Joanna. Out on thee, boy ! sooner than see thee wed A thing so worthless, I — in mine old age — Would to the highway go and beg for thee. My son, my son ! why, with regardless foot, Wilt thou to earth as sweet a floweret tread As ever blessed the day, while to thy bosom Thou tak'st a nettle that will sting thee ever ? Carlos. What is this flower which I to earth would tread ? Joanna. How can'st thou ask? Hast thou forgotten Inez ? 70 THE COMPACT. Carlos. Forgotten Inez ? — gentle, truthful Inez ! — The playmate of ray childhood ? The one friend That stood between me and the chastisement My wayward boyhood did too oft deserve 1 As soon could I forget myself, my mother. But what has the remembrance of dear Inez To do with my wild passion for Almeyda ? Joanna. With that not much. But with thy happiness, Unthinking boy ! far more than I can say. She loves thee, in all maiden modesty, With woman's pure and unobtrusive love. Carlos. A love like that would scarcely satisfy A heart so vast in its desires as mine. Joanna. So vast in its desires ! What folly's this ? Would'st be content to call Almeyda thine, Regardless whether she returned thy passion, Yet slight the love that, with unwavering flame, Warms the soft bosom of my gentle Inez 1 Carlos. Mother, on this I cannot argue with thee, I love sweet Inez with a brother's love — And ever must — but O ! what now I feel For the unparalleled Almeyda is No kin to this. — It is idolatry ! And I will win her — scorn me as she may — Though for the wealth, which she so highly prizes, I barter my salvation ! Joxtnna. Impious boy ! THE COMPACT. 71 Down on thy knees, and cry to Heaven for pardon. For me, I will go weep my ruined hopes. Exit weeping. Carlos. I grieve thus to have pained the kindest heart That ever beat within a parent's breast. But goodness is not always reasonable. And 'tis unreasonable of a mother, To seek to change the current of affection From its true course. I love dear Inez well- But O, my frenzied love for thee, Almeyda ! Is such as Indian worshipper may feel For that stern god, before whose bloody car He falls, and by his death proves his devotion. O Gold Omnipotent ! thou art the key That canst alone unlock the human heart ; And with thee yet may I an entrance find Into the bosom pride hath firmly barred. But how, alas ! can one condemned to toil Of thy vast power obtain the mastery 1 Shall I go seek for thee among the sands Of wondrous streams, whose sources yet are hid By trackless forests of the western world 1 Or league with bands of bold adventurers, Who, stooping not to dig thee from the earth, Do wring thee from the hands of savage men, Who reck not of thy worth ! 1 know not yet. But, as thine aid is needed for my purpose, Mine must thou be — and shalt. Let me think how. 7 '2 THE COMPACT. Throws himself into a seat, and appears lost in thought. Low melancholy music is heard, and his Guardian Axgel, with a countenance full of sorrow, bends over him. Guardian Angel. Child of earth ! — yet Heir of Heaven! — To and fro by passion driven ; — Right at heart, but wrong in will ; — j Knowing good, yet choosing ill ; — Whom, with faithful watch and ward, I have strove from sin to guard ; — Wayward mortal ! though it grieve me, To thyself awhile I leave thee, Till by sorrow — teacher stern ! — Thine own weakness thou dost learn ; Hoping, when the trial's o'er, Fiery though it be and sore, Thou in low content may'st rest, Blessing as thou shalt be blest. The music becomes of a vrild unearthly character, and the room is filled with a dense mist, in which Carlos is completely en- veloped. Gradually it disappears ; when Carlos and the Temp- ter, who is disguised as a vinedresser, are discovered stand- ing together in an open country. Tempter. Nay, cheer thee, lad ! Why. what a brow is here ? Dost think it one to win a maiden's heart ? No, by my troth ! it would provoke the mirth Of any of her sex, to see that visage, So wobegone ! and hear the dolorous sighs Which shake thy bulk ! And all for u-hat ? A girl ! THE COMPACT. 73 A lovely one, I grant ; — yet but a girl, That may be won, if any man should think 'Twere worth his while to woo her like a man. Another sigh % Pshaw ! Here ( Giving him a flask) is that will drive The vapours off that cloud upon thy brain ; And make thee see how weak it is to grieve When work is to be done. Carlos, [after drinking.) How potently Thy liquor works ! New spirit seems infused Into my jaded form ; and hope again Sits smiling at my heart. There is no project, However vast, my teeming brain might form, I now would shrink from. Show me but the way To win the gold Almeyda's love demands, And I will follow it — lead where it may. Tempter, (mysteriously?) There is a way. Carlos. Name it. Tempter. Thou wilt not try it. Carlos. What, thinkest thou that I lack courage then ? Tempter. I know thee brave enough to aid a friend By peril of thy life, for I have seen thee Contend with the enraged, unsparing waters For one poor youth, who otherwise had perished. And do not doubt that thou thy foe would'st meet. And never flinch, even in the death encounter. But then I fear — - Carlos. What 1 ? 4 74 THE COMPACT. Tempter. Thou wilt shrink from this, Carlos. Shrink from it % Why % Tempter. It is beset with clangers Would seem for mortal strength too formidable, Because not of the earth. List to my tale. I had an uncle once — a learned wight — To whom the lore forbid by' Mother Church Was more familiar than his Pater Noster. The secrets of that world, which from our eyes The Master of all Worlds with jealous care Hath hidden, were made visible to him ; And at his death the knowledge, which, with years Of patient labour, he had won, to me He did bequeath. Now, at a word of mine, Wilt thou but bid me speak it, thou shalt see More treasure than would buy ten thousand maidens. And each than thy Almcyda ten times prouder. Carlos. O speak it then, and quick ! Tempter. Not now, nor here. But walk with me towards yon giant mountain, Whose shadow keeps in everlasting night The valley lying at his feet, where we, Shall find a cave, that to the frightened peasant Seems the huge mouth of some devouring monster, Which we must enter. Hast thou nerve for that 1 Carlos, {proudly.) If thou hast doubts, lead on and learn. THE COMPACT. 75 Tempter. Then follow. Exeunt. Wild and unearthly music is again heard ; when the Scene chan- ges to a mountainous region, among the rocks of which is discovered a deep cave. The Tempter, followed at a short distance by Carlos, enters, and stops before the cave, from which strange noises, with frequent mutterings of thunder and flashes of lightning, proceed. Tempter. Still holds thy courage ? Carlos. Hast thou seen it falter ? The mountain that o'erhangs us does not stand More firm than my resolve. Lead where thou wilt. They enter the cavern, which suddenly closes with a tremen- dous crash, followed by harsh and discordant music ; wnen the Scene changes to a gorgeous temple, with an altar in the centre, brilliantly lighted and adorned with fruits and flowers formed of precious stones, surmounted by a golden image wearing a crown, at the feet of which a book is lying. Soft and seductive music is heard followed immediately by the entrance of the Tempter and Carlos. Tempter. Thou standest now in mighty Mammon's Temple — Mammon the only god that all men worship. Kneel and adore. Carlos, (stoutly.) That will I but to Heaven. A clap of thunder is heard, and the temple violently shaken, as by an earthquake. Tempter. Another word like that, and I will bid This temple fall and grind thee into dust ! What ! wilt not _ give the homage of thy knee To him who has the worship of thy heart? Invisible Singers. O Power Supreme ! Almighty Gold ! How oan thy praise in words be told % 7(^ THE COMPACT. Thou rul'st the state; dost win the fight ; Unblushing wrong thou turn'st to right ; The vot'ry from the shrine dost win, And virtue mak'st of deadly sin. The bond, the free, the young, the old, All worship thee, O Gold, Gold, Gold ! Thou dost from proud and courtly dame And cloistered maid like homage claim : The pride of boastful Chivalry Bends to the dust to honour thee. While Learning, with his haughty crest, Thine humblest slave to be were blest. All hearts thou melt'st, however cold, For thou art Love, Gold, Gold, Gold ! At the beginning of the song the Tempter kneels, and, before the conclusion, is followed by Carlos. Tempter, (as they rise.') Thine homage done, there is but one thing more To make the wealth thy heart dost covet thine. Unclasp the book which lies upon the altar, And with the noble names therein enrolled, Inscribe thine own. 'Tis in a minute done. Carlos hesitates. Invisible Singers. Sign, sign, sign ! And all things are thine. "Whate'er thou know'st of pleasure ; Length of days, and changeless youth ; THE COMPACT. 7? Health unfailing ; countless treasure ; Woman's love, and woman's truth ; Each and all are thine. Sign, then sign ! He ascends the altar with faltering steps, and, after an effort, signs, Avhen a loud laugh rings through the temple. Invisible Singers. He is ours ! he is ours ! the fiat is spoken ! The bond that unites us shall never be broken ! The ashes of earth shall be scattered forever : The soul must endure, and depart from us never. For dross of the earth, that poor mortals call treasure ; A lewd woman's smile, and a moment of pleasure, His right hath he bartered to glories eternal, And chosen his lot among spirits infernal. From depths of that deep which no plummet hath sounded, Ye fiends ! lift your voices in gladness unbounded ! A triumph once more have we gained over Heaven, The sin hath been sinned that cannot be forgiven ! Carlos, terrified and bewildered, staggers down from the altar, and falls. Fierce and triumphant music is heard, mingled with mockinglaughter from all parts of the temple, imme- diately followed by impenetrable darkness : when the Scene changes to a magnificent apartment in the Chateau d'Or , in France, into which Carlos enters, leading Almeyda splen- didly attired. Carlos. My beautiful ! the eye is never sated With gazing on thy charms ; nor is the ear With drinking in the music of thy voice. 78 THE COMPACT. O my Almeyda ! may Heaven's benison Eest on the hour that led me to thy dwelling, Among the vines of lovely Andalusia ! Almeyda. (impatiently). O good my lord, name not a place so lowly Beneath this gorgeous roof. Carlos. And wherefore not 1 'Twas poor, I grant ; but, humble as it was, Within it did not I a treasure find That would enrich a palace 1 Why dost smile 1 Almeyda. To think of thy sad plight the night thou earnest Unto our door, for shelter from the storm, That for thy 'broidered garb and jewelled cap Had shown small reverence. Carlos. 'Twas a blessed chance That parted me from my attendants, when, Amid the storm, beneath thy father's roof I shelter found, and hospitality, And love. Almeyda. But found, in her who gave that love, A thoughtless, wayward girl, who home and friends Did leave — to be the leman of a stranger. Carlos. Dost thou regret that act ? Almeyda. No, in good sooth. Else had I been the wife of some vine-dresser, Some clod, like that poor Carlos whom I spake of. THE COMPACT. 79 But, if it were not so, hast thou not been Than home and friends — than all far more to me ? Carlos. Sweet flatterer. Well? (To the Tempter, who enters disguised as the Major Domo.) Tempter. My lord, I have prepared A small divertisement, for the amusement Of our most gracious mistress. To the Court, Sojourning at Versailles, a troop of dancers Are on their way ; and at their head is one Who has no parallel for grace or heauty In all the realm of France. Of France ? Nay, faith ! She has no equal in the lands of Europe, Nor in the worlds beyond. With much persuasion, Have I prevailed upon them to remain This night in the chateau ; and, if it please you, They now will give a sample of their skill. May 1 admit them 1 Carlos. What says my Almeyda '? Almeyda. (with indifference). Even as thou wilt. I am content to sit. Exit Tempter. Carlos leads Almeyda to a seat, and places himself by her side. The Tempter enters, marshalling the dancers, who, after due obeisance to the lord and lady of the mansion, per- form a characteristic dance, which is terminated upon the en- trance of Julie, who bounds forward and dances by herself, when the Tempter, coming to the side of Carlos, directs his attention to her, to the evident annoyance of Almeyda. Carlos, (abstractedly.) How beautiful ! Were ever power and grace SO THE COMPACT. So admirably blended ! Now in air She seems to float, obeying every impulse Of the uncertain breeze ; anon, with step Firm as the foot of the rock-scaling chamois. She bounds along the earth ; then springs aloft. And hovers o'er us, like a happy bird Whose home is Heaven ! Though nothing but a creature, So like Divinity it seems, 'twould scarce Be deemed idolatry to worship it. Almeyda. {ironically.) My lord is eloquent. Carlos. Strong admiration Must aye be so — or dumb. Almeyda. (scornfully.) Then it were better To chain our tongues, than lavish gems of speech In commendation of a dancing girl. Carlos, (sharply. ,) The good are ever ready to believe Goodness in others. This fair dancing girl, Whose mode of life mayhap was not her choice, May be as kind in heart, and pure in thought As many, who have ne'er been forced for bread To make a liberal display of charms All must admire — or envy. Almeyda. (with a scornful laugh.") Truly spoken ! And charitably ! Carlos, (taking a jewelled goblet, filled loith wine, from a table near, and handing it to the Tempter. ) Bear to yon fair lady THE COMPACT. 81 This cooling draught ; and pray her keep the cup, For sake of him who sends it. Almeyda. {starting up.') By thy leave, I'll be thy cup-hearer. Taking the goblet, she pours poison into it, 'unseen by any but the Tempter,w1io manifests his delight, and pre "+«* it to Julie, -who, with a lowly reverence, takes it and drinks. Julie, (throwing away the cup.') Heavens ! I am poisoned ! She falls into the arms of the dancers, who have been grouped around her, and is borne away to the sound of mel mcholy music. Tempter, {exultingly.) It was my lady's act ! — I saw her do it. Carlos, {springing towards him.) Audacious liar ! Tempter, (coolly.) Let her then deny it. Look in her face, my lord. What would you more ? Carlos. It is, alas ! too plain ! Guilt there is writ In characters that cannot be mistaken ! Covers his face with his hands, and staggers to a seat Almeyda. (boldly.) Deny it do I not. Nay, glory in it. Why do ye look in wonderment upon me ? Is it so strange that weak, defenceless woman, Whom custom has denied the right to challenge Unto the lists the one who does her wrong, Should seek by other means her just revenge ? I have been outraged in my love. An outrage That nor my nature nor my sex can bear. And, as my hand is all too weak to deal With him who did commit the wrong, I chose 4* S2 THE COMPACT. To wreak my vengeance on his instrument. And now declare, were it to do again, That I would do it, with no more remorse Than feels the foot in treading out the life Of noxious insect ! Carlos, {rising.) Take her from my sight ! And let her feel the keenest sufferings Severest justice has for crime devised. Almeyda. (j)roudly.) Ay, take me hence, that I may see no more The face of him who tempted me to sin, By dazzling my weak brain with blaze of wealth. Alas I alas ! thy words were sooth, my mother ! — Unholy love shall have unholy end ! She is seized by the Tempter and other attendants, and drag- ged off to triumphant music. Voice from Above, Sweet the cup to the eager lip That pleasure gives the young to sip, And brightly sparkles to their eyes ; — Yet in its depths a poison lies ! Poison that fdls with fire each vein, Scars and maddens heart and brain ; Killing life in the blooming form, ~ And the soul gives to th' undying worm ! Carlos, (musingly.) To what a state of wretchedness have I THE COMPACT. 88 Myself condemned ! My cup of life embittered ;— My soul's perdition sealed with mine own hand ! — And all for what ? For Gold— accursed Gold ! — To buy a wanton's love ! — one proud and jealous — ■ And vengeful more than either proud or jealous — Who would have shut from me the common air, Or poisoned it, if that I dared to breathe it Without her high permission ;— whose fierce love— If love that can be called, which not the man, But the man's rank and grandeur had inspired-- Was harder than another's hate to bear ! foolish heart ! at what a fearful price Have thy desires been bought ! But how is this 1 Am I repentant 1 That indeed were folly ! 1 chose my fate, and like a man will bear it. "Walks slowly out, and the Scene changes to a highway. A dead march is heard, and a procession enters, conducting Almeyda, in the garb of a condemned criminal, to execution. DEATH CHANT. When bright the world before us, and pleasures beckon on, And seems the coming moments more fair than moments gone ; When, like a mettled courser that sees the goal is nigh, The heart bounds forward merrily, 'tis hard, indeed, to die. But when we have grown weary of the bickerings and strife — The droppings of the bitter fount that wear away our life ; 84 THE COMPACT. The tree of life is verdureless, its trunk and routs are dry, Than rest to the worn traveller 'tis sweeter then to die. But when we've madly trampled down the blessings in our path, And for the love of human kind have courted hate and wrath, To go from sin and suffering to meet the Judge on High, When hope of mercy there is none — 'tis terrible to die ! As the procession passes out, Carlos enters followed by the Tempter disguised as a friar. Carlos, {angrily.) Why art thou here? Didlnotbid thee leave me 1 Tempter. You did, my lord ; but that I cannot do. Indeed, so strong is my attachment to you, I do not think I e'er can leave you more. Carlos. What means this insolence % Tempter. What insolence % Can the expression of a man's regard Be construed insolence'? I love your lordship, And, as we cannot always dwell together Upon this slippery ball, which men call Earth, Why I have come to take you home with me, Where there shall be no parting. Carlos. What dost mean'? Tempter. Well, if I must be plain, why thus it is. There was a promise written in the Book That lay on Mammon's altar. You, perhaps, Did mark it not. I will repeat it to you. THE COMPACT. 85 " /or iljc plfe mi) ncca reriutrcs, Jlno alt saitsftcis fosires, JJ gum mt) soul MiitljCMt foittrei €0 coerlasting fires." You have received the gold your need required, And all desires been fully satisfied ; — So far 'tis well. Your promise now I claim. Carlos, (alarmed.) Thou canst not mean it ? Tempter. Do you think I joke % Drops his disguise, and stamping upon the ground, fiends come up and seize Carlos. What think. you t now 1 This does not look like joking. Carlos, (throwing himself on his knees.) Spare me ! O spare me ! if but for a day. Tempter. A day % Ha ! ha ! Carlos. O then a single hour ! Tempter. Trifler ! no more ! Slaves, do the work of Justice ! The fiends seize Carlos, and, the earth opening, descend with him into it, amid flames, followed by wild, exulting laughter, and harsh, but triumphant music ; and the Scene changes to the Infernal Regions, discovering Satan upon a burning throne, wrapped in a robe of flame, with a blazing crown upon his head, surrounded by the princes and nobles of his court. In the distance is a lake of liquid fire, over which, like a canopy, hangs a cloud of impenetrable blackness. Satan. A sound comes from the earth, that to mine ears Is ever pleasant. 'Tis the frenzied cry Of one of that new race — strangely compounded Of matter and of spirit — formed to fill The places our revolt in Heaven left vacant-— 8G THE COMPACT. For his lost heritage, by his own act. And though the creature is endowed to soar To the empyrean, yet the earthly portion, Of his mixed nature, drags the heavenly down To grovel in the du-^t, 'till for a mess Of pottage, to appease the moment's hunger, He sells his birthright of eternal glory. But, lo ! he comes. Begin the song of welcome. SONG OF THE FIENDS. Outcast from the face of Heaven ! Sinner not to be forgiven ! Lo ! all Hades moves to meet thee, While with welcome glad we greet thee. To the home of sprites infernal, To the place of woes eternal, Where the worm of conscience never Dies, but gnaws, and gnaws forever, Welcome, welcome, welcome ! Where no ray of hope e'er gladdens, But despair forever maddens, Whose fierce pangs are— never ceasing— Still beginning, still increasing. To the grave of the undying, Where the soul, in anguish lying, Rest shall never, while in motion Heaves Eternity's black ocean, Welcome, welcome, welcome ! THE COMPACT* 87 They move towards the entrance, where Carlos is seen, in the custody of the fiends under the command of the Tempter. Carlos, {throwing himself at the feet of Satan). Mercy! mercy ! Satan, (spuming him.') t)ost thou come to mock us? Ask mercy here, where every thing declares How terrible the Wrath the guilty suffer 1 Ho, slaves ! take from my sight this puling wretch, And cast him into yonder Sea of Fire 1 A number of fiends rush tumultuously towards Carlos, and are about to seize him, when the Scene changes to the Chamber of Inez, lighted by the moon shining through an open lattice. Inez enters slowly, and, seating herself at the lattice, looks up toivards the moon,, SONG.— Inez. Sweet, lady moon ! when forth thou com'st, Like princely dame among her maids, With thy bright train, a holy calm All heaven o'erspreads and earth pervades. And on the troubled spirit falls Thy loving smile — so pure and mild — • As soothingly as mother's song Upon the ear of weary child* O peaceful moon ! how oft have I, Amid life's storms and misery, Asked for the aid of angel's wings To rise from earth and dwell with thee ! 88 THE COMPACT. Joanna, {entering with a light.) Not yet abed? I thought on age alone The curse of sleeplessness had been pronounced. Inez. I Avas not weary ; and I thought to while An hour away, in looking out upon The tranquil beauty of this summer-night, And list the melody made by the breeze In dallying with the vines. 'Tis sweet employ. But why art thou astir ? Joanna. Methought I heard A cry of pain ; and fearing thou wert ill I hurried to thy chamber. Hark ! again. A cry is heard Inez, (starting up.) It is the voice of Carlos. Let us hasten, And learn the cause. Takes the light and hurries out, followed by Joanna. Scene the same as the first. Carlos lying on his face on the floor. Enter Inez followed by Joanna. Inez. Great heaven ! what is this ? Joanna, (bending over him. ) My son ! My son ! Carlos, (raving.) Away ! ye torturing fiends ! Joanna. He does but dream. (Shaking him.) Awake thee, boy, awake ! Carlos, (starting up.) Where am I? Here? In my own happy home 1 With thee, my mother 1 and my darling Inez ? THE COMPACT. SO And all my sin and suffering but a dream ? O Heaven ! I thank thee for this timely lesson ! Dear mother, there is happiness before us, If thou wilt beg my early playmate here To be my life's companion. Joanna. Beg her, boy 1 Ay, on my knees, if that be necessary. Inez. Nay, mother that is not. If Carlos wish it, Here is my hand, {offering her hand.) Carlos, {seizing and hissing it.) A thousand, thousand thanks ! They kneel before Joanna for her blessing ; the Guardian An- gel appears above them with a smiling countenance, and the back of the scene is filled with good spirits. CHORUS OF GOOD SPIRITS. Joy ! the hour of trial's o'er ! Reason has her sway resumed ; And the darkened mind once more Is by light from Heaven illumed ! By an angel's hand, the chain That the spirit bound is shivered, And from passion, grief and pain Is the slave of sense delivered Joy ! Joy ! Joy ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. [Most of the following'pieces have already appeared in print. Some in certain stories, of which the world knows very little ; and others in periodicals of limited circulation. But none without some faults that stood in need of correction. This correction has been here at- tempted ; with what success, the reader who may have met them before, is the best able to judge.] HAN-YEKBY, " My brother's head is very white, The snows of many winters there Have fallen ; and from the Spirit Land Come voices on the air, That tell him he must soon depart To fields beyond the setting sun ; Where, to the braves who have before Him gone, he will in turn tell o'er The deeds which he has done ; — And with the noblest warriors there Full well'my brother's may compare. " Then let my brother tell me true. Is he Han-Yerry's friend indeed 1 But think, beneath whose tomahawk My brother's kin did bleed ; Who did his wigwam burn ; and who Upon his wife and children crept Where they for safety lay, and w uld. 94 HAN-YERKY, But that on guard my brother stood, Have slain them as they slept. No more as foes do we conteud ; But can he be Han-Yerry's friend 1" " The Whiteman would, when strife is o'er, The evils of the strife forget. The hatchet we have buried deep ; And smoked the calumet. Then what would my Red brother more To prove the Paleface is his friend V " Let this pappoose," the Indian said, As towards a wondering little maid He did his hand extend, " Whose smiles my brother's heart delight, Go with Han-Yerry home to-night. " No bird sings for Han-Yerry now. The voices that he loved to hear Have passed — like songs of other springs — No more to glad his ear : His sons and daughters — where are they 1 All scattered like autumnal leaves ! And, thinking of her children gone, Sits in her silent hut alone Han-Yerry's squaw and grieves. These sunny smiles will bid depart The cloud that rests upon her heart." HAN-YERRY. The babe that on her grandsire's knee "Was seated, close and closer pressed Unto him, 'till her little head Was laid upon his breast. And from her seat the mother sprang, With words of fear and gestures wild — And yet defiance in her mien — And stood with outstretched hands between The Indian and her child. But calmly did the old man raise His eye to meet the warrior's gaze. He fain would made that Chief his friend ; And knew no words, however kind, Nor deeds, if shadowed by distrust, The Redman's faith can bind. Now striving with fond words to soothe The terrors of the little maid ; And then — a harder task is here — To calm the trembling mother's fear, Yet not in vain — essayed ; He rose and to the warrior saith, " My life upon Han-Yerry's faith ! " This blessing of our home we give Unto my brother's care tOrnight :^- ; And as he deals with her, will him The Whiteman's God x'equite : — 95 96 HAN-YERRY. And may her presence drive away The grief that clouds the spirit now Of his poor wife." A sudden gleam Of joy — a quickly-fading beam — Flushed o'er Han-Yerry's brow. Yet he no word of thanks did say ; But took the child, and went his way. To make her darling's absence short, Away to bed the mother crept ; But when she knelt her down to pray , She named her babe and wept. The whipporwill sang in the bush, The catydid sang in the tree, The meadows, and the fields beyond, Sent voices up, — so did the pond — To swell their minstrelsy. Familiar sounds and pleasant ; still To her they boded nought but ill. And then, her trial to forget, In spirit with that company In grief their Lord who followed, went She up to Calvary. And when she marked the bitter woe Of her beneath the Cross who stood, The Maiden-Mother, who in One Dread Sufferer saw her God and Son, HAN-YERRY. 97 And mingled with His blood Her tears. " what," she criedj " to thine, Sweet Mother ! are such griefs as mine V At length into unquiet sleep She fell ; but started soon again. Did she not hear the Indian whoop % Her babe is surely slain ! Yes, in those soft and sunny curls — Those curls of which she oft had felt So proud — a savage hand is twined ! — A feeble scream comes on the wind ! — And, dangling at his belt, She sees the scalp of her- sweet child ! And springeth up with horror wild. She cannot rest within the house. But will, though dark the hour and late. Hie to Han-Yerry's forest lair, And know her infant's fate. But pausing on her father's words ; — " Of this proud Chief distrust to show, Were but to turn a useful friend, Who yet may needful succour lend, Into a direful foe :" — 98 HAN-YKRKY. Betook her to her bed again ; And strove to sleep — but strove in vain.. But lustily and cheerily Bold chanticleer salutes the day. And, earlier than the earliest bird, Hope trills her matin lay. " Look up ! the clouds are flying fast,. Light ever is of darkness born. No heart beyond its strength is tried. And for a night though grief abide, Joy cometh with the morn ! Then rest on what thy father saith — ' My life upon Han-Yerry's faith !' " She rises ; and, while yet a few Pale stars are dimly burning seen, Goes through the dew that heavily Lies on the pastures green. But thinking it is all too soon To leave their sweet, soft grassy beds, The lazy kine, as she draws near, With looks betraying nought of fear, Turn round their heavy heads, And scarce are willing up to stand, Though urged by her familiar hand. Her milk is strained ; her pans are set ; Before the door the churn is rolled. HAN-iTERKY. 99 And, as the dasher briskly plays, 'Tis spotted o'er with gold. But little does the mother heed The work on which sheseems intent — For dreadful fears her bosom goad — And ever on the hillside road Her eager gaze is bent. " Why come they not !■ why come they not !" Though mute her lips, is still her thought. But it is early yet. The sun Has not upon the meadow shone ; Where, though the mower swings his scythe, A swath is not yet mown. The breakfast hour will bring them sure. The breakfast hour is come and gone ; — The children all — their daily rule — Have kissed, and trooped away to school. O where's her little one 1 Towards the hillside road again She turns, and looks — and looks in vain. The sun climbs slowly up the sky. The clock, that never stopped before. Moves not, although it ticking keeps a Behind the parlour door. She takes her wheel and tries to spin. 100 HAN-VERRV. 'Tis spoiling wool, not making yarn. A little meal she wets, and then Away she goes to feed the hen That's sitting in the barn. Alas ! this eagerness for change Betrays in her a spirit strange. Her father bendeth o'er his book, Without a shade upon his brow, Though sorely he must miss the babe That should be home ere now. Perhaps, in tenderness to her, His own sad fears he doth conceal. Him will she to confession bring, Or else, by cunning questioning, His secret from him steal. But still, as heretofore, he saith, " My life upon Han-Yerry's faith." And now the elms beside the gate Towards the north their shadows cast ; The dinner horn is blown ; and now The dinner hour is past. The meadow is alive again ; And thither is her father gone, And all that can with fork or rake The new hay spread or wind-rows make ; KAN-YERRY. 101 And she is left alone. She has her work upon her knees, Yet nothing but the road she sees. The wretch that on his couch is laid, With fever scorched and racked with pain, And begs but for a single cup Of water — and in vain, May something of the longing know, And something of the weariness Of that poor mother's heart. But, O ! Its stil) increasing weight of woe . He cannot even guess, As hope forever disappears, And leaves it crushed beneath her fears. But when the elder children come From school, and eager are to learn Why did their little sister go 1 And when will she return % Or if they must not hope to see Their merry little playmate more % The fountains of her heart unlock, And water, gushing from the rock, Now at her eyes runs o'er ; And she w ill forth, whate'er may come, And seek her babe, and bring it home. 102 HAS-YERRT. And as the shadows of the hills Lie stretched across the meadows far, And homeward weary young and old From toil returning are, Before her father shall come in, By counsel or command to change Her purpose, rushes she away — Her garments all in disarray, And wild her looks and strange ! — When, coming down the hill, she saw Han-Yerry, followed by his squaw. And on her back the Indian wife A little creature, dark and wild, Now bears. The mother's heart grows sick. O, Heaven ! where is her child % The Redman passed without a word. But laughed the squaw right merrily ; While the pappoose, in savage dress, Like native of the wilderness, Did clap its hands with glee. The Indian trick is quickly guessed; — And clasped the babe is to her breast ! Between the Redman and the White The friendship planted by this trust Grew up into a tree, which spreads HAN-YERRY. 103 Its branches o'er their dust. And in its pleasant shade now dwell, Like brethren of one family, The remnant of Han-Yerry's race And children of the good Pale-face In perfect amity. So ends my tale. The moral's plain 5 — Mast's faith jn man is seldom vain. "GOD SEETH. When grazed the red deer "on these plains That now the white man tills, And ere the woodman's axe awoke The echo of those hills, Within the sound of yonder fall, O'er which, in spray and foam, The Hoosic's silver flood is dashed, A hunter made his home, And to this Indian hunter's hut An old man came to die. Not one was there of all he'd known And loved in days gone by. Not one that, in his native speech, A welcome could extend To him whose weary pilgrimage Was drawing to an end. " GOD SEETH." 105 But kindness has a thousand ways Her meaning to impart, And, though not understood her words, Her accents thrill the heart ; And never had that aged man, Though he on Christian ground Had wandered long, than in this hut A kindlier welcome found. He died. His grave beneath yon pine By savage hands was made ; And there, unblest by priest or prayer, His crumbling bones are laid. And, save what he on birchen scroll In dying moments traced, Of him, his joys and sorrows, now All memory is effaced, " God Seeth ! ' I have wandered far, That I might feel no more These words, that turned my blood to ice, And seared my brain of yore. But as his victim meets him still Where'er the murderer fleeth, Before me aye, where'er I turn, I see inscribed — ' God Seeth ! ' 5* 106 ' GOD SEETH." "I've stood where Heela's light has flashed j I've roved with Tartar bands, And crossed with sons of Ishmael Zahara's burning sands ; I've clomb where Winter sits amid Mont Blanc's eternal snows, Yet 'gainst these words, ' God Seeth ! ' could My aching sight ne'er close. " Though his power, the right to man Our God has never given, To make his fellows tread with him His chosen path to Heaven ; And though our brother may be wrong, While we his errors mourn, Shall we refuse to bear with him With whom his God hath borne ? "Alas, I thought not always thus ! But, in my bigot zeal, Who would not own my creed the best, Were sure my wrath to feel ; And what, had I the sufferer been, I loudly would condemn As most oppressive cruelty, But justice was to them. " GOD SEETH." 107 " Yet many a one was leagued with me Who might have taught my youth, That Charity should not be lost In battling for the Truth. And had her holy spirit but Our councils led that night, How changed had been the scene from that I tremble now to write. " We fired the poor, but peaceful, homes Of those who bowed the knee At shrines, which had been sacred held Through many a century. The cries of fear, of grief and pain Did music seem most fit To mingle with our worship then. — O God ! I hear them yet ! " Not one escaped. For those the flames, Less cruel, would have spared, Were driven back, with blow and ban, 'Till all one ruin shared. The sire, the matron, and the babe, The maiden and the youth, Were offered up — by Christian men — An holocaust to Truth ! 108 "god sebth." " Destruction's work had seemed complete, When lo ! a temple grand, That time and change had passed unscathed, We saw before us stand. And there the symbol of that faith Which, we had sworn, should be A thing forgotten in the land, Shone forth rebukingly. "The doors are battered in, and shrine And image are cast down ; And to the earth are holy book, And sacred vestment thrown ; — Upon the gifts the altars bear Men now like demons tread ; Nor spared the hand of violence The sanctuaries of the dead ! " We revelled there with holy things 'Till even the fiercest tired ; And then resolved, with loud acclaim, The temple should be fired. 'Twas done ; and fiendish shouts arose Our triumph to proclaim, As fretted dome and towering cross Sank in a sea of flame. " GOD SEETH." 109 " But bravely still those stout old walls, That had so long defied The power of time and change, stood up Our malice to deride. At length they shake ; — they yield ; — and then Came thundering to the ground ! Not one huzza ! Whence came this change 1 This silence so profound 1 " The words of ribald blasphemy On mocking lips had died ; The unbelieving heart was awed, And blanched the cheek of pride ; And, only for the troubled light In every eye that shone, That daring band of lawless men Had figures seemed of stone. " Upon the blackened walls, above Where the grand altar stood ; — ■ That table where the hungry soul Had found celestial food ; — In characters of flame, that seared The sight, did on us glare These fearful words — ' God Sbeth ! ' — 'Twas His finger traced them there. 110 " GOD SEETH." " I've striven since, through long, long years, To wash from heart and brain The memory of that dreadful night With penitential rain : But He who seeth pities too A contrite spirit's grief, And now has sent His angel Death To give me sure relief." HE CHILD AND THE ANGEL CoME^here to me, my little ones? And sit ye by my knee, While I a simple story tell Was lately told to me : — A tale of childish trust in God, 'Mid want and misery. A little maid scarce six years old ? A feeble thing and fair, Was in the street one night, when not Another child was there ; And very few the garments were That little maid did wear. The night was dark and bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground ; And dismally^.the^hoarse north wind Was howling all around, As forth she held her hand for aid :— But none, alas ! she found. 112 THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. Yet up and down the street she went, Unwilling to depart, 'Till froze the tears upon her cheek, That would unbidden start, And, from her hands and feet, the cold Crept in and chilled her heart. Then home she went. " Alas, the home That she, poor child, must find ! Where there is neither food nor warmth, Nor hope of welcome kind, For nought had she to bring to one Was suffering left behind. And she, who had been left alone When forth that little maid Had gone into the street to beg, In Heaven's sweet name, for aid, For weary months upon the couch Of sickness had been laid. And in that time went, piece by piece, Her furniture and clothes, 'Till everything was gone. And then — The heaviest of her woes !- — That night upon the sufferer fell Which ne'er a morning knows. THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. IIS With biting want thus blindness came — O miseiy extreme ! — To make more desolate the home That did so wretched seem. Ah, there are woes, even at our doors, Of which we little dream ! But from that sightless widow's lips No murmur ever fell ; Nor e'er against God's chastisements Did she in thought rebel ; But humbly bowed and kissed the rod That smote, and said, '"Tis well." At length, when their last crumb was gone ? The little maiden prayed Her mother, that she might go forth Of strangers to ask aid. She went ; — and disappointment sore Upon her spirit weighed. And yet not for herself she grieved, Though hunger pinched her sore, But for her mother ; and she paused A moment at the door In doubt. But she had done her best, And no one can do more. 114 THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. So o'er the threshold of her home The maiden softly stept, For fear she should untimely wake The sufferer if she slept, At whose bedside an ill-fed lamp A feeble light still kept. And by that light she looked upon Her mother's face, and saw A something strange therein that filled Her little heart with awe ; For, though she nothing knew of death, She felt 'twas Death she saw ! " Oh, am I then alone !" she sobbed, " And must I ever be ! But no. My God's protecting love Shall bear me company ; And thou, sweet Virgin Mother ! wilt A mother be to me." Then kneeling down, she lifted up Her heart and voice in prayer, To Him who for the orphan hath A father's love and care ; And in her desolation fell Sweet peace upon her there. THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. 115 And then her aching head she laid Upon her mother's breast : — Though cold, it was her mother's still ;— And there she sank to rest. When, in her dreams, an angel came, The sleeping child that Blest. And when she in the morning woke The angel still was there, But did, for robes of dazzling white, Coarse sable garments wear, And had concealed its radiant form An humbler one to bear. So thought the orphan, when she first Those pitying eyes and mild, That o'er her bent, beheld, and heard The tones, which had beguiled Grief of its bitterness in one Less hopeful than a child. And well she might. The holy love In Sister Mary's breast, That burned for all — yet brightest burned For creatures most distressed, — A beauty gave to her that few But angels have possessed. 116 THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. Then from that house of want and death The little maid she bore, And placed her where the tears of woe Shall gall her eyes no more, And where the long oppressed heart With gratitude runs o'er. THE WITCH The harvest moon, so round and bright, Looks calmly down on hill and plain, But sees not waving in her light Broad fields of golden grain. Nor has the husbandman, who cast His seed in hope into the ground, Reward for toils and trials past In crowded garners found. In sooth, there ne'er was harvest time Less like that jocund time, I trow, Of which so much is seen — in rhyme — Than this I sing of now. For though the Spring had promised fair, She quite forgot to keep her word ; And Summer — shabby 'twas of her — Was equally absurd. 118 THE WITCH. And in the month of strawberries, The month of cherries and of roses, When every sight our eyes should please, And every smell our noses ; — The month to fill the heart's desire Of all who are of music fond, When every thicket is a choir — And so is every pond ; — To wear one's overcoat at noon, In double blankets sleep at night, With our ideas of " leafy June" Are not in keeping — quite. And though ice-creams some tastes may suit, And some folk fancy frosted cake, To ice our flowers, or frost our fruit, Is rather a mistake. And summer had, instead of suns, That should have ripened fruit and grain, Brought winds as merciless as duns, And cold December rain. And frost, the vital warmth that chilled In swelling bud and quickening germ, THE WITCH. 119 And what escaped his touch was killed By the devouring worm. Then drought, a fiery dragon, came, And drank the waters of our rills, And withered, with his breath of flame, The grass upon our hills. And frost and drought together threw The folk into such consternation, That men in droves their cattle slew, To save them from starvation. And yet, though everything has failed, The harvest moon comes smiling here. But not with pleasure is she hailed, As she had been last year. But flashing eye and angry brow Now in her pure calm light are seen, And men are gathering for a row Upon the village green. 'Tis something no less true than trite — I hope 'tis no offence I utter — That never men so bravely fight, As for their bread and butter. 120 THE WITCH. And bread and butter both are like To fail our people in their need, So they resolve upon " a strike," At least revenge to feed. Revenge on what 1 The barren earth ! The handmaid she of God Supreme, Nor less obeys Him by this dearth Than did she richly teem, As she was wont in former years, With fruits to fill the barns of all. But no. The fault is none of hers. Nor there should vengeance fall. Yet, as they did most sagely reason, Since nature never such a prank Had played before, they for this season Had something else to thank. And who so. like, is urged by all, To be the instrument of ill As that strange being, whom they call The Witch op Breakneck Hill 1 For is not she, as every child Can tell- you, what a witch should be 1 THE WITCH. 121 A creature from her kind exiled By age and poverty ! How bent her form ;-— how sunk her cheek ;- How slow and tottering is her gait ! And oft to beings does she speak Unseen that on her wait. They ask not if by grief, or years, That once majestic form is bowed ; They do not ask if time, or tears, That cheek so deeply ploughed. Nor yet, if they she calls upon, In language strange and accents wild, Might not the tender names have known Of husband or of child. They see that she is old and poor — Decrepit — friendless • — yet, that she Has never sought a neighbour's door, For aid or sympathy. That no companionship she knows Among the idle crones around ; But that a cat aye with her goes, As black as can be found. G 122 , THE WITCH. And some, who " revel late o' nights,*' Have seen, when honest dames were sleeping, Gleaming from out her hut, the lights Of one strange vigils keeping. But here a stronger proof is found, That all this ill's of her contriving : While blight has fallen on all around, Her garden patch is thriving ! And so the Solons of the place, Have in the witch's hovel sought her, And doomed her to — a common case — The ordeal of water. And stoutly — -spite of prayers and tears, Reproachful speech and loud denial, Her sex, infirmities, and years — Insist upon the trial. And rudely seizing the poor soul, With ribald shout, and jeer, and din, They drag her down to Buffett's Hole, And there they throw her in. " Now if she swim," an old man said, " She is a witch beyond a doubt ; — THE WITCH. 123 But if she sink, be quick to aid ; — She's none, and must come out." Even while he speaks, the waters close Above the head of the devoted. Some bubbles to the surface rose ; — And that was all they noted. But aid was vain to save her then ; And thus, some hours before her time, She died, to teach these cruel men — Misfortune is not crime ! A WINTER EVENING TALE The storm is loud without. The frozen rain Comes in a shower of pebbles from the sky ; And, by the north wind that goes shrieking by, Is driven furiously against the pane. But for its clamour what care you are 1 1 'Tis but the howlings of a mastiff chained — Noisy but harmless. Yet the heart is pained, Even when the head no danger can come nigh, To think upon the outcasts of our kind Who wanderers are ; — nor food nor shelter find. Nor food nor shelter ! Hard his fate indeed Who is condemned, upon a night like this, To seek in vain what rightfully is his ; For God his bounty has to each one's need Largely apportioned. But unwise it is To sigh o'er evils we cannot redress, But rather should we take" with thankfulness, The present good, nor pine at other's bliss. A WINTER EVENING ffALE. 125 And so, all gloomy fancies to disperse, Will I a tale of truthful love rehearse. Love ! 'Tis a word of vast significance. A mighty ocean gathering, into one O'erwhelming flood, the myriad streams that run From sources hidden deep from mortal glance. The mountain torrent, glittering in the sun, And speeding on its way with headlong force, The river sweeping on its glorious course, And laggard stream that seeks the light to shun, Are merged in occean ; and all passions claim — The noble and the mean — Love's common name. Upon the margin of a glassy stream Once stood the dwelling of an honest pair. Their means were humble ; yet content they were, For thoughts of grandeur troubled not their dream. An only child they had— a daughter fair. Sweet floweret of the Hoosic ! what could vie With thy young loveliness 1 The father's eye Dwelt proudly on it ; but the mother's prayer Was to the Giver of all Good, that He Would shield it from the world's impurity. The days of childhood passed ; and this sweet child — But child in naught save innocence — might seem The incarnation of a poet's dream, 12ii A WINTER EVENING TALE. Or denizen of some far region mild, That doth with flowers of Paradise still teem; So airy was her form — so bright each tress Of sunny silk — such truth and gentleness Spake in her cheek's warm blush and soft eye's beam. Blest were thy banks, O Hoosic ! to have given Birth to a flower so like the flowers of Heaven. Her sixteenth summer scarce was numbered, ere She saw the proudest of the village youth Sigh in her train, and proffer love and truth, With which alone her beauty could compare. But, though her little heart was filled with ruth, For even the meanest thing, her Maker, good And wise, with life and feeling had endued, For such she little pity showed in sooth ; But laughed at their sad tales and looks forlorn ; Yet more, I ween, in merriment than scorn. But all alike not lightly did she pass. With one she'd gathered childhood's blossoms gay, And, though that season now was passed away, Still dear unto her gentle heart he was. And oft at even would she with him stray, When twilight gave its softness to the scene, Or summer moon, with all her dazzling sheen, Lent night a loveliness unknown to day, A WINTER EVENING TALE. 127 And listen to his vows with burning cheek, But a deep joy no words have power to speak. One sober eve, as they had oft before, Along the Hoosie's pebbled marge they strayed, While wind and leaf above in dalliance played, And, mellowed by the distance, came the roar Of rushing waters. Here most warmly prayed The youth, with eloquence that well might move To passion even a heart that knew not love, The bliss he sought should be no more delayed. What could she more, than bid him be content, Her parents seek, nor doubt of their consent ? There is no language that like silence speaks The heart's conviction of its happiness. The river that hath depth beyond our guess, Unlike the shallow brook, the ocean seeks And never babbles of its joy's excess. And on the lovers went without a word, While in his hand her's fluttered like a bird That struggles for release from strange caress, Until within the shadow of a wood Of gloomy, tall primeval pines they stood. When from the forest .rushed a. fearful band Of savage foes, whose shouts the welkin rend. 128 A WINTER EVENING TALE. Right manfully the maiden to defend Young Frederick turned ; though with unweaponed hand. " Thou might'st as well, presumptuous boy ! pretend," The stalwart chief in bitter scorn did say, " To grapple with the bear, of from his prey Unsatisfied the hungry panther send, As from the Swooping Eagle wrest the dove." Hurled him to earth, and bore away his love. Dark was their path and wild ; nathless they kept In line unvarying as the laden bee, When home returning to his hollow tree ; And still the maiden lay as if she slept The dreamless sleep. Yet bore they tenderly The lifeless form, 'till came they where a brook Stole through the trees, when of its waters took The chief, and bathed her pallid cheek, till she Woke to a sense of her sad plight ; and then On in their silent march they moved again. But till the morning broke the maiden knew Not half the ills that compassed her around. And then, oh agony ! herself she found The hopeless captive of a lawless crew. Her head was pillowed on the stony ground. But harder were the hearts of those whose eyes Now seemed to gloat upon her agonies, And to whose ears her sighs became a sound A WINTER EVENING TALE. 129 Of merriment. - Among them not a face That on her bent of pity bore a trace. Then from her eyes the tears in torrents fell, Until the chieftain thus addressed the maid : " Behold in me the patient fool that prayed To thee for pity. Ay, gaze on me well ! Thou scorn'dst the heart that at thy feet was laid ; Didst drive the angel out that dwelt therein, And filled the place of love with hate and sin ! Dost thou not know me yet from what I've said ? Behold !" he threw his Indian garb aside, " My cousin Adrian !" she shuddering cried. <'• Thy cousin Adrian ! The blood that fills Thy veins and mine from the same fountain came — One grands! re ours. But what in thee is tame, Through my impassioned heart tumultuous thrills. But I to thee would give a tenderer name Than aught that blood or kindred can bestow. My love ! my bride ! Shrink not • it must be so. Thy minion lives not to dispute my claim ; And ere yon sun shall hide him in the west, The dove shall shelter in the eagle's nest, " Besume thy Indian garb," the maid replied In tone of biting scorn ; " it suits thee well. And raise the song of death — the savage veil ; (V* 130 A WINTER EVENING TALE. For ne'er shalt thou, vain boaster, call me bride. And here I scorn thee and thy vengeance fell. What though my fate be hid from mortal eye % There now is looking on us from the sky One who can give these rocks a tongue to tell That here the blood of innocence was shed, And call down vengeance on the murderer's head !" " Hold !" he in fury cried — " I'll hear no more !" " Hold !" echoed was in tones that froze his blood. And lo ! a threatening form before him stood, Whose brow was stained — whose locks were stiff with gore. Awhile the trembling wretch he sternly viewed, Then said, " Wait not the justice due thy crime}; And thank thy God, while Mercy gives thee time, Thy hands arc not with kindred blood imbrued. Away ! and with the banned of nature dwell, — Than thou no savage e'er more false or fell !" 'Twas Frederick spake ; and soon he was obe} r ed. The baffled traitor from his presence flew, As flies the deer when eager hounds pursue. And then the lover knelt him by the maid, Whose icy cheek he did with tears bedew ; And with the'tenderest words heart could device, Implored her ope once more those lovely eyes, Whose light withdrawn, the world in shadow threw. A WINTER EVENING TALE. 131 Scarce to the dead had he so prayed in vain ; — And Isabel smiles in his arms again ! So ends my tale. Imagination now Must paint the raptures of her parents, when They folded to their hearts their child again, And bathed with tears of joy her angel brow. And to imagination, not the pen, The task belongs, the transports to portray That fired the youth, when thus the sire did say, As he their hands united — " Best of men ! To thee this treasure of our age we owe, And to requite the debt, do it on thee bestow !" TORY HOLLOW. " In the name of sweet Heaven, your aid I implore. I am weary and faint ! 1 shall die at your door. No food have I tasted ; my lips have not wet Since gray of the dawn, and the sun is long set : But still, like the wolf from the hunters, have fled, With foes on my track and a price on my head ; 'Till wounded and fainting the flight I give o'er. Then ope to me quick — or I die at your door ! " These words, though in accents that scarce would have broke The light cradled sleep -of an infant, awoke From slumber a maiden, whose father was then, With three gallant sons, and a band of brave men — Their ploughs in the furrows still standing — gone forth. The foeman to drive from the land of his birth ; And mother lay sleeping beneath the green sod, While she had no friend — no protector but God. TORY HOLLOW. 133 But ne'er from distress had she yet turned her ear, And the blood of her race was a stranger to fear. So, rising in haste, she the door did unbar, And said, " Enter freely, who ever you are. Save shelter and food, I have nothing to give, And these would refuse not to any that live. For ever to all that assistance require Has welcome been found 'neath the roof of my sire." Then feebly he entered ; when she, with a start, — While rushed like an icebolt the blood to her heart, — Beheld the dear youth who, ere peace fled the land, The promise had won of the maiden's fair hand, But who, in respect for a time-honoured name, Th' allegiance forgot that his country should claim, And drew, in defence of the rights of a throne, The sword that belonged to his country alone. And faithfully since, though, thank Heaven ! in vain The cause he espoused had he fought to maintain, Till now, that he had by the chief at Old Ti', On a mission been sent wit and courage would try. When, meeting an outlying party of those He once loved as friends, but now dreaded as foes, For well had he earned — and he knew it — their wrath, In his wish to avoid them, he turned from his path. 134 TOKY HOLLOW. And, being well mounted, he thought to outstrip His foes now in chase, and he spared not the whip, And spared not the spur, till the steed he bestrode, As it strove to obey him, fell dead in the road. They are close on his track ! when the road he forsook- Now piercing a forest — now fording a brook — Till the flight, long sustained, he is fain to give o'er ; And comes now for shelter and aid to her door. She'd loved him ; ay, fondly and trustingly loved As none love but once ; yet the moment he proved Untrue to the cause of her dear native land She deemed him her foe, and denied him her hand ; And would, had he come with a conqueror's pride, And the train of a monarch, to make her his bride, Have bid him the love, freely plighted, ne'er claim Till the stain of dishonour was washed from his name. But humbly thus suing for food and for rest, The sweet angel Pity awoke in her breast ; And bidding him welcome, she placed on the board The few simple viands her cot did afford : The spring gushing forth from the hillside then sought, And water that seemed molten diamonds brought, To bathe his torn feet, ere his limbs he should fling On a pallet less hard than the couch of a king. TORY HOLLOW. 135 And there, all forgetful of danger, he slept ; While watch through the night at her casement she kept, For little, she knew, had the Tory to hope, From those on his trail, but the ball or the rope. Yet even the tory, whose impious hand Against her who bore him — his own native land- Was ruthlessly turned, if unable to fly, She'd shield from all danger — or with him would die. With a basket of food then she did her provide, And this on her arm, she drew close to his side, And whispered, " Awake ! there's no time to delay, For morning approaches, and you must away. Then up ! and my footsteps in silence attend, For still can I serve, though I am not your friend, And safe will conduct you where you can remain 'Till the hunt that's now up is given over in vain." They thridded a forest, which seldom before Had been trodden, except by the redman of yore, 'Till they came to a brooklet, that noiselessly crept Through low stunted cedars ; and close to it kept ; When it led them adown through a darksome ravine, Where it still could be traced, though it could not be seen, By its low drowsy hum, till it flashed in the sun, Whose course for the day was in glory begun. 186 Tor - ? hollow. And then from the brooklet they turned to the right, Where a clump of tail pines, in whose centre sat Night, Looked down on a valley scooped out from the hills, That singing of birds now with melody fills ; While the Hudson, that since hath borne treasures untold On his bosom, afar through that valley then rolled In silence and darkness, his course dimly shown By mists hanging over the fcreetops alone. " Within," said the maid, " is a cavern, the lair, In winters long past, of the wolf or the bear, Th' existence of which, if it ever was known, Is forgot, save by me and my brothers alone ; And there may you safely from danger abide, Till the storm you've so rashly provoked shall subside, If my coming you wait :" and, without an adieu, She turned, and was instanly lost to his view. Four wearisome days, and four nights of unrest Passed tediously by ere again he was blest With a sight 6f that form -which, in peril and gloom, Had come, like the sun, his dark path to illume; Yet knew, though unseen, that she still hovered near, For aye as the morn on the hills did appear, When buoyant with hope, he upsprang from the ground, His basket with food now replenished he found. TORY HOLLOAV. 137 But on the fifth morn, ere the stars had grown dim, Or wakened the woodlands their earliest hymn, From a dream of the past, he was roused by a voice, That oft made his heart in his boyhood rejoice, Now whispering his name, as it bade him come forth ; When sudden he sprang to his feet from the earth, And saw with delight 'mid the pines' deepest shade — As she stood reigning in a proud courser — the maid. " Quick ! mount and aw;iy ! there's no time to be lost ! Ere rise of the sun must the Hudson be crossed. Their home unexpected my brotl ers have sought, And to you their coming with clanger is fraught : But they sleep ; and, before they awake to the light, I have hastened to bid you seek safety in flight, For I would not the blood of my country's worst foe By hands of my kin, save in battle, should flow. "Yet grant me one word." " Nay, not one," she replied. Behold how the steed does this tardiness chicle ; — Now champing the bit, and now pawing the ground ; — - Away then ! while safety in flight may be found. And, hark ! there is snapping of boughs in the wood. They come, O they come ! who're athirst for your blood ! Then fly ! if the heart you have desolate made For aye you would crush not, I must be obeyed ! " 138 TORT HOLLOW. He sprang to the back of the courser, that flew Away like the wind, while the brothers pursue — Their sister who've tracked to the cave — and they come With well loaded rifles, the heralds of doom. And closely they follow adown the deep glen — It has ever been called " Tory Hollow " since then, — Till the fugitive stands on the bank of a stream That still is untouched by the morn's purple beam. He pauses in doubt. Shall he venture the leap 1 Below rolls the river broad, sullen, and deep ! But now, as a moment he turns to look back, He sees the pursuers are close on his track : — The spur and the rein to the steed he then gave, And the horse and the horseman leapt into the wave, While the bullets, in wrath that were sent for his blood, Flew harmlessly o'er him, and sank in the flood. He 'scaped : and when peace was restored to the land, Came suitor once more for the long promised hand. But to his entreaties she listened unmoved, Even while she denied not he had been beloved. But the heart that distrust has unhappily chilled, By affection undoubting no mure can be filled ; And scarce could the man who forgot what was due To his country, she thought, to a woman prove true. THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC The winds are abroad ; and they come in their might O'er the hills, where the pines bend them low in affright ; They shriek through the forests, and rush through the vales With a shout that the cheek of the hardiest pales. The mariner starts, as the sweep of their wings O'er his bark, wildly reeling, the blinding spray flings ; And their screams the hoarse prayer of the struggling wretch drown, As the billows roll o'er where his vessel went down. In the lull of the wind, in the pause of the wave, Comes a sound that with dread fills the hearts of the brave. Now it rings an alarum ; — now mournfully knolls ; 'Tis begging for succour for perishing souls. And its summons is answered, with ready good will, From farmhouse and hamlet, from plain and from hill, But in vain do they strive with the surge and the gale ; — The decree has e;one forth, and no aid can avail ! 140 THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC. The winds have been gathered again to their caves, And hushed into silence the roar of the waves. Yet, to and fro swinging, unceasing the bell Of the Vessel of Doom tolleth forth its sad knell. 'Tis thought that by hands of good angels 'tis rung, A message of love to convey by its tongue : — The living to warn that the deep will betray, And for souls of the dead asking Christians to pray. A SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY Here Nature holds her sabbath. Here Reigns gentle Peace, as when at first God rested from his labour, ere The earth for sin of man was cursed. And all things own her influence. For not alone the moil and strife That vex the heart are banished hence, But the tumultuous joys of life. And O ! how sweet it is to steal To scenes where worldlings never stray, And in God's holy temple kneel, And at His shrines our offerings lay. For though no gorgeous fane is nigh, Nor altar raised by mortal hand, His temple is yon glorious sky ; — Th' eternal hills His altars stand 142 A SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY. And sweet our ardent sighs to blend With incense from the breathing sod, And with the forest monarchs bend In reverence to the power of God. To join with bough, and brook, and bird In hymn;; of gladness and of praise To Him who, by His sovereign word, Called forth whate'er His eye surveys. But, to the heart that long hath bled From wounds our cherished sins have given, O sweeter far it is to shed The tear unseen by all but Heaven ! HYMN TO AMERICA. America ! the bosom thrills With rapture at the thought of thee, Upon whose everlasting hills In light is written — Liberty ! Whose glory all the earth has filled ; Whose spirit, breathed through every land, A flame in hearts oppressed and chilled Has kindled, nothing shall withstand. And at whose voice have souls designed For freedom from their slumber woke, And chains, more galling to the mind Than to the fettered limbs, have broke. And who a temple, that with Time Shall last, has reared upon thy shore, 144 HYMN TO AMERICA. Where all, of every creed and clime, In love may meet — in peace adore. And while pale despots curse thy name, From whom the worm on which they trod Has learned a brother's rights to claim, The serf looks up and blesses God I CHRISTMAS HYMN. The queenly Night on Horeb sat : And, from the canopy "which hung In darkness o'er her, shadows deep O'er all Judea's plains were flung. But from a jewel rare, that shone Amid her starry diadem, A ray of Heaven's own radiance stole, And fell on lowly Bethlehem. And then the silence, which had lain Like heavy slumber on the land, Was broken by a burst of joy — The hymnings of a glorious band ! And harps were struck, and voices raised By those who hailed Creation's birth : — " All glory be to God on high ! And peace," they sang, " to men on earth !' 7 THE CEOSS AND BEADS " Take, soldier, all thou dost behold ; Here nought is worth our strife ; — For silver have I not, nor gold ; — And, if thou wilt, my life. I'm very old — five-score* and odd — With none to mourn my loss, For wife and children are with God. But spare my Beads and Cross. " These beads I've daily counted o'er E'er since I was a boy — In trials succour to implore, And thanks return in joy — To Her who feels for all that grieve,. And for the sinner pleads : And she has been my friend : then leave The poor old man his Beads. THE CROSS AND BEADS. 147 " And when to earth by sorrow weighed For all beloved — gone ! I knelt before the Cross and prayed To Him who died thereon ; How light to what He suffered there Was grief for earthly loss ; And I have risen strong to bear. Then spare the old man's Cross." " Nay, father, for thine humble home Fear not. We tread this soil As foes, 'tis true : but do not come The helpless to despoil. We soldiers are — not robbers ; and We do not war with creeds. For gallant hearts are in our band That love the Cross and Beads." A TALE OP THE IEISH FAMINE A woman in the throes of death Lies on her cabin floor. A wife and mother yesterday — But such, alas ! no niore. Her husband, yet in manhood's prifne- Her children, young and fair — Before her eyes have perished all ! And she alone is there. No, not alone. The priest of God Is kneeling at her side. One blessing still is hers, even though All others are denied. The hand that on her infant brow The cleansing waters poured, Now offers to her dying lips The Body of her Lord. A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE. 149 " Father," she says, with feeble breath, " God will reward the care With which you've watched o'er me and mine Through hours of black despair. Yet one more favour would I beg, To her beyond the sea, When I am laid beneath the mould, A blessing send from me. " And tell her, father, we are dead, But say not how we died. Why should her gentle heart be wrung To know how ours were tried ? Why should she know the bitter pangs Her parents' hearts that tore, When vain they knew their toil to keep Starvation from the door % " Then tell her not, how, day by day, Her father's strength did fail ; Nor how her darling sister's cheek Hollow became and pale. Though I beheld her father yield Himself to hopeless woe ; Her sister die in lingering pain ; All this she need not know. 150 A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE. " Nor how her little brother looked Into my face, and cried For food — which I had not to give — Till in my arms he died. No, father, no ; — for Heaven's sweet sake, Send not across the sea, That all she loved have perished thus, Or she will frenzied be ! " But say we did her not the wrong To think we were forgot, Even though the aid we might have hoped From her did reach us not ; Then tell her, father, in the scroll My dying words that bears, She still can help us — if she will But name us in her prayers." She ceases as a haggard form Glides through the cabin door, And to the holy man extends The letter that he bore. It brings from a far land, though long By adverse winds delayed, The earnings of a pious child Her parents dear to aid. A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE. 151 The glazing eyes a moment ope, But soon are closed again ; And sadly to herself she says, " For us it comes in vain ! But strengthen, God ! the hand that gives Thus freely of its store ; And on the kind and loving heart Thy richest blessings pour !" THE STAR OF THE SEA Voyager of Life's dark ocean, When that clouds the heavens deform, And thy hark is on the billows Tost — the plaything of the storm ! Listen, and, amid the wailings Of the tempest, thou shalt hear Faith, with hopeful voice, that whispers, " Look aloft ! and do not fear. "Through the murk a light is breaking. Calmly, purely, from afar. One bright star is shining on thee. Christian, Mary is that Star !" CANZONET The love the poet sings Is ideal, Or soon it taketh wings : But the real, A glow o'er earthly things Of heaven's own radiance flings • And to the love that's real Do angels touch their strings : Not to the ideal. Then give thy heart to love ; — Freely give it ; And angels will approve. Wholly give it, If the dear God above — The true and only Love — Thou wouldest should receive it And him that gives approve, Freely, wholly give it. "LOVEST THOU ME?" As erst unto Peter, so now unto thee, Thus sayeth the Saviour, " Lovest thou me ?" And thou, e'en like him who his Lord had denied, " Thou knowest I love Thee," hast promptly replied. Thou knowest I love Thee ! Hast weighed this reply \ Or darest to Truth boldly utter a lie 1 For if thou dost scorn in the outcast to see A brother, O say not, " Thou know'st I love Thee." To raise the down-trodden ; to succour the poor ; The woful to comfort ; the sufF'ring to cure, The merciful Jesu came down from above, And, Him if thou lovest, these too must thou love. And turn thine eye inward, and jealously scan If aught there is hidden from man against man. Should hate in thy heart for thine enemy be, Thou mockest in saying, " Thou know'st I love Thee." THE CBUCIFIXION. Come with me to the Cross, and see Thy Saviour in his agony, And own, O man ! how deep thy guilt must be. Th' Eternal Son, to whom was given The sovereignty of earth and heaven, Is from the presence of His Father driven ! In mortal form His godhead veiled, And by blaspheming tongues assailed, And Jo the tree a malefactor nailed ! And lo ! from hands, an d feet, and side, Is poured the deep empurpled tide, Till Justice stern relents — is satisfied. 156 THE CRUCIFIXION. Who tore Him from His throne on high ? And clothed Him with infirmity 1 And unto want condemned, and obloquy 1 Who pressed the thorns upon His brow ? And ah ! who did with anguish bow The soul of Yearning Love 1 man, 'twas thou ! Then lowly kneel the Cross before, And at the feet of Mercy pour The tribute of thy tears, and Saving Love adore ! PEACE, BE STILL, Winds and waves, in wild commotion, Doubting hearts with terrors fill, Till the Lord of earth and ocean Rising utters — -Peace, be still ! Then to caves, where lately hidden, The unmurmuring winds retreat, And the waves, like vassals chidden, Bow them at their Master's feet. Ever thus, when passion rages, And when doubts my bosom fill, May the voice that grief assuages Kindly whisper — Peace, be still ! EEST IN THE CHURCH The dove that from the Ark was sent, When, after long and painful quest, She failed to find, where'er she went, A spot whereon her foot to rest, — For over all one shoreless main Its cold, dark waves incessant rolled, — Returned to that blest home again, La peace her weary wings to fold. And I, that long on feeble wing Have wandered o'er a troubled sea, Where doubt its cheerless shadows fling, Without one star my guide to be, All vain pursuit have now given o'er ; And home returning, like the dove, Within the sacred ark once more Have safety found, and peace and love. THE EMPBEOE AND THE NUN The gates of Eorae are open thrown, And through them rolls a tide Of warlike forms, that yet have known Than this no manlier pride ; — To crowd the servile ranks of one Whose smile is to the slave Than Heaven more dear, but in whose frown His doom is writ — the grave ! And, borne upon that glittering tide, A monarch enters in Where martial pomp and kingly pride No acclamations win.; For Rome, while thus her sacred streets By Northern hordes are trod, With sad and shuddering silence greets The Second Scourge of God ! 100 THE EMPEROR AND THE NUN. A feeble woman, worn with toil, And bowed, but not with years ; — A plant torn rudely from the soil Now wet with Freedom's tears, — A waif upon life's desert strand, — A bubble mid the foam Of ocean ; — doth unnoticed stand Within the walls of Rome. Her tattered garb and bleeding feet Her wretchedness declare, Although a smile serene and sweet Her thin, pale lips still wear. The love and trust that nerved her heart To brave a tyrant's might, Still to her downcast eyes impart A calm and holy light. The ruthless Despot of the North, Whose banners are unfurled O'er myriads trampled to the earth — The serfs of either world ! — Whose ravening eagles fiercely fly O'er bz'oad and distant lands, As equal with an equal, by Rome's Priestly Sovereign stands. THE EMPEROR AND THE NUN. 161 But low at God's Vicegerent's feet The wayworn pilgrim kneels, A Father's blessing to entreat. And down her cheek though steals A tear, through channels worn by pain, 'Tis not from grief it springs, But joy, that she — poor dove ! — again In peace may fold her wings. With brow severe, that scarce hath need Of speech's feeble aids, On him who would his eagles feed With flesh of cloistered maids, One look the aged Pontiff cast Ere fell his stern rebuke, And like the pine in Norland blast The crowned caitiff shook. Few were the words God's holy priest To that proud monarch said ; But burning deep within his breast They fell like molten lead ; And trembling from the face of him In Jesu's place who stood, With reeling brain and vision dim, Went forth the Man of Blood, 162 THE EMPEEOR AND THE NUN. Then bending o'er the kneeling maid, He said, in accents mild, As on her head his hand he laid, Be comforted, my child. The earth drank not thy tears ; but they Went up to Heaven, and claim The blessing I pronounce to-day Upon thee in God's name." PAEAPHEASE OF THE LOED'S PEAYEE. Father, who in Heaven dost dwell, Throned in light ineffable, Yet regard'st the weak and lowly, Be Thy name forever holy. Thou, who from eternity Wast, and evermore shalt be, Come, from things of time to win us, O'er us reign and reign within us. But, whate'er Thou givesfc, still May we learn to know Thy will, That, in this our mortal state, We Thy saints may emulate. Of Thy bounty give us, Lord, What will needful strength afford, 164 PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER. And with heavenly, — living bread Let our souls be daily fed. What Thy holy eyes shall see In us that displeases Thee, Pardon, as we pardon those, To our hurt have been our foes. While temptations round us throng, Luring still from right to wrong, Aid us, when we cannot fight, That we safety find in flight. And, as Satan's snares are spread In our path where'er we tread, Do Thou, who our strait dost see, Timely our Deliverer be. "NOT DEAD — BUT SLEEPETH." ADDRESSED TO THE OPPRESSORS OF IRELAND. Cohorts of a Godless Power, That with Eight have battled long, Do not yet — though your's the hour — - Raise your proud, triumphant song. Do not, ere the fight be won, Rouse the blood that feebly creepeth Through the hearts ye trampled on : — Freedom " is not dead — but sleepeth !" Tyrants, no ! she is not dead ! Though ye have so madly striven Out the sacred spark to tread — Life of Life — that God hath given ; For alive the breath of Him, Who that spark first kindled, keepeth, Yet to blaze, though now 'tis dim : — Freedom " is not dead—but sleepeth !" 166 " NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH." Ye have mocked at her distress ; — Ye in chains her limbs have bound ; And, in bitter wantonness, Cast her helpless to the ground. Know ye not, who sows the wind He the whirlwind surely reapeth? And — nor late — ye yet shall find, Freedom " is not dead — but sleepeth !'' On her night of woe at length Must a glorious morning break, When, with renovated strength, She from slumber shall awake. Tremble, then ! for ye shall know, When tornado-like she sweepeth In hot vengeance on the foe, Freedom is nor dead nor sleepeth ! ST. P ATEICK'S DAY Though tears, from the hearts that with grief are o'er- flowing, Embitter the cup on this morning we brim, Yet, Erin, for thee in our bosoms is glowing A flame that nor time nor affliction can dim. Though death fill the breeze that floats over thy moun- tains, And pestilence desolate valleys and plains, And poisons gush forth from thy once holy fountains, Undying the love of thy children remains. And such too the faith — though it might not be spoken- Still nursed in the souls of the wronged and betrayed, Whose trust in the justice of God is unbroken ;— A justice most sure, though it long be delayed. O then, though in chains, and thy heart wrung with sor- row, And all who would aid thee are scattered or crushed, Aid thou from the past for the future canst borrow No hope, let the sob of thine anguish be hushed, 168 st. Patrick's day. The blood of thy martyrs — ascended to heaven — Shall clamour for vengeance not always in vain ; And cometh the time when thy foes shall be driven For aye from the soil they have dared to profane. O then from the earth, where thou liest forsaken, Dear Erin ! look up, for the night is far gone ; The Day of thy Freedom thou soon shalt see breaking, And the prayer of our hearts is, May God speed it on ! EPITAPH A gentle soul, the joy that made Of loving hearts, from earth is gone ; And sorrow now and darkness fill The home its light was shed upon. But 'tis not lost. An angel hence The priceless gem to heaven has "borne, To shine for aye among the stars That form the crown by Jesus worn. SONNET. TO CORNELIUS AV. LAWRENCE. It is not hard to rise above the crowd, Or many, who now fill the public eye. Had still crawled on in that obscurity Which nature meant their worthlessness to shroud. Yet they, to whom the world has one day bowed, The next have passed away to nameless graves, And underfoot been trod by fools and knaves, And truckling parasites and brawlers loud. But he who would a lasting hold obtain On men's regard, must of- a spirit be That could not stoop even honest ends to gain, Yet power bear meekly and prosperity. And whose pure name detraction could not stain. One such I'm proud to know ; — and Tnou art He. TO GEOKGE DAVIS, ON HIS NOBLE VINDICATION OF OUR COUNTRY FROM THE CHARGE OF HOS- TILITY TO FOREIGNERS, WHICH A REVEREND DECLAIMER AT A NEW ENG- LAND DINNER HAD, IN HIS BIGOTED ZEAL FOR PURITANISM, ENDEAVOURED TO FASTEN UPON HER. I — in the name of my dead father, who — When, by unholy laws, it had become A crime to love the land where first he knew The sweets of home-affection, and to roam Was driven by the fell oppressor's scourge — Launched his frail bark upon the billowy surge, And sought and found a home among the free,r— In the proud clime that boasts a son in thee; — Do thank thee for the noble stand which thou Didst take, when Bigotry, that fiend accurst ! Cloaked in the garb of holiness, but now Upon the social hour in fury burst. For thou alone, while loud and fierce he bawled, Stood'st in his blasting presence unappalled-, And proved'st how foully he the land belied For which Pulaski and Montgomery died ! WHEN I WAS IN MY BOYHOOD When I was in my boyhood — ■ 'Tis many a year ago ! — A simple village maiden Set my bosom in a glow. Ah me ! my heart is old ! Ah me ! my heart is cold ! But of the fire there kindled then Some sparks the ashes hold. The brightness of the morning Was sadder than her smile ; The rose had not her beauty, And the yeanling had less guile. Ah me I could woman be What Ella was to me, No other paradise than earth Would mortal wish to see. WHEN I WAS IN MY BOYHOOD. 173 But long the spell's been broken That did my heart enchain ! The goddess of my worship Was a creature weak and vain. Ah me ! the precious ore * Of wisdom's boasted lore I would resign to be again The dreaming boy of yore ! APOLOGUE A pine, that stood forever in the sun, Looked down, and wagged his graceful head in scorr Of a poor shrub, had been content to dwell In the deep vale in which he had been born. " Ha ! ha ! " then laughed aloud the haughty pine, " Compared to this exalted state of mine, Poor grovelling thing ! how mean a lot is thine ! " But soon the tempest, in his car of night, Came rushing by ; and, as he passed, did fling At that proud tree an angry bolt, which left The boaster on his height a blasted thing. And yet his taunt the shrub retorted not Against the pine ; but blessed the Power that sought To give him safety in an humble lot. SOPHIA You ask for a verse, and I think I will try To hammer one out, though no poet am I; And my theme — let me see ! — -What a ninny am I ! ah, What theme should I have, hut the charms of Sophia % But don't think I'll flatter ; for if you should chance A mirror to pass, you can tell at a glance, Though figure and face none can fail to admire, That others may match you in beauty, Sophia. But your lips, should they not with the ruby compare, Have that in their smile, which no ruby can wear ; And your eyes, if not just what the stars in the sky are, Beam gladness on all who behold them, Sophia. Your voice may not be like the nightingale's strains,— * I know not such bird ever sang on our plains- — 176 . SOPHIA. But this I do know ; — in our own woodland choir, There's nothing more kind than the voice of Sophia. And though your teeth scarce would be taken for pearl, Or your hair for the thread of the silkworm, my girl ; Than silk, or than pearl, you've a treasure far higher — A gentle, a loving and true heart, Sophia. INTRODUCTION TO " THE TWO SPIRITS." When some who now are bowed and old, And some who in their graves are cold ! Were boys, whose stout young hearts beat high With hope — and of their number I — Upon a hill, from which a man, Without much effort, could have thrown Into the noble stream, that ran Close at its base, a good sized stone, There stood a house which once had been — 'Twas long before my time, I ween — As some averred, a stately dwelling, By far all neighbouring ones excelling. But now it had a weird look ; And, in its dress of faded white, Might easily have been mistook For some old mansion's ghost at night ; And though we laughed, and wagged our heads^ 178 INTRODUCTION And shouted as we passed it by When heaven and earth were bright, and shone The sun in glory in the sky, Of all our band there was not one Would pass it when the day was done. The chimneys, that no use had known For many a day, to earth were thrown ; The broken roof let in the rain ; The windows were without a pane ; The doors, so long had open stood, You could not shut them if you would ; And in the parlours, in the hall, And in the goodly chambers all, Were piles of withered leaves, that lay On heaps of dust there raised by slow decay. Around this mansion once had lain A rich and beautiful domain, Which one, who of an after race Bethought, had thickly planted o'er With trees and shrubs, that fruit or flower Each in its proper season bore. And these to guard from wanton boys, The idle and the ill-disposed, That suburbs aye infest, within A good stone wall enclosed. But soon, in our unstable clime, Neglect will do the work of Time- TO THE '■' TWO SPIRITS." 179 That wall so strong was now o'erthrown, And not a stone left on a stone ; And though the trees — grown wild — that still Bemained, put forth their leaves in spring, With here and there a blossom, none Did fruit unto perfection bring. The lilac, currant, and the rose Had disappeared, or if a few Still lingered, it w as only where Eank weeds or grass so thickly grew Around them, one must wonder how Their lives had been prolonged till now ; And house and grounds a common fate Had shared — and both alike were desolate ! It now were vain that house to seek ; And just as vain to seek the hill Where erst it stood, for here, alas ! Is nothing suffered to stand still, But change still follows change so fast The new comes ere the old is passed. And if that I, who have not stirred Abroad for years — ah, me ! how many ! — Of places to my heart endeared By memory, now can scarce find any — Or, if the place should be the same, Gone is the old familiar name,— 180 INTRODUCTION. What -wonder if the thousands, who, Through crowded streets their ways pursue, Where once they were should daily pass, And never dream that either was 1 Yet of that house have I to tell A tale, should make it be remembered well. SONG Though in golden sunlight laughs the bubbling fountain. That her shining tribute is sending to the main, Cold, as in the bosom of the snow-clad mountain, In her depths the pebble many a year hath lain. Even thus, while Nature is of pleasure breathing, And Life's bounding river rolls on in liquid gold, — Joy the eye is brightening, — smiles the lips are wreathing,— May the heart beneath them lie untouched and cold, THE CUP I HAVE BKIMMED. The cup I have brimmed I drink, lady, to thee. And were it as deep as the fathomless sea, And full as the ocean at springtide can be, To the bottom I'd drain it, dear lady, to thee. And drink to me, lady fair, drink thou to me. When, mute though thy lips, in thine eyes I shall see If love in thy heart lying hidden there be. For wine has no secrets, then drink, love, to me. LINES. PART OF A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS FOR THE " BOSTON PILOT." What veteran seaman, when the storm is loud, And envious clouds the face of Heaven enshroud, Would risk the fame of which he well may boast, And, pilotless, attempt an unknown coast ! Yet not alone when angry billows rise, And night and tempest join to veil the skies, And ocean rushes wildly o'er the strand, Would such a Pilot for his bark demand. For even when smiles the morn, and favouring gales Give to the home-bound joy and swell the sails, The treacherous bank, or sunken reef may bring The wreck of all to which we fondest cling — Home, hope and life — except some skilful hand Assume the helm, and guide her safe to land. And not alone the gallant bark that braves The tempest's wrath, and peril of the waves, A Pilot needs. The ship of state is wreck'd Too oft, when left to rashness or neglect} 1S4 LINES. Behold the Freeman's boast, Old IaoNSiDES ! How bravely she the roughest storm outrides ! The breakers there, and now the quicksands here, She shuns, nor falters in her proud career ; But still, with sails full set, and flag unfurled, Moves on, the admiration of the world ! "Why is it she can thus securely sail, When round her foam the waves, and howls the gale ? Can hug the shore, yet run not on the land 1 A faithful Pilot has her in command ! And Erin see ! With sails and rigging gone, Before the wind is scudding, aDd anon Lost in the cross seas that sweep o'er her deck, Or tossed upon the waves, almost a wreck, While angry scowls the face of Heaven deform. But that small craft has loeatlier^d many a storm. Then do not fear the floods shall her o'erwhelm In sight of port* — O'Connell's at the helm ! But, lo, the Bark of Peter ! Round her raves The fury of the tempest-; and the waves Of Errour's black, unfathomable sea, Before her prow uprear them threat'ningly. Yet, with the pennon of the Cross displayed, Onward her course — uninjured — undismayed — *The poet was no prophet here I LINES. 185 Receiving ever on her ample deck The rescued souls from many a foundering wreck ; And they, who've "been the sport of every wind, Welcome with her, and peace and safety find. For Truth Unerring has by God been given, To be her Pilot to the Port of Heaven ! T LOVED THEE I loved thee ! and Low truly Is known to only One ! — For aye thy blessed presence Was to my world the sun ! And to this heart, whatever May seem to stir it, thou, Who didst its love first waken, Dost give the pulse even now. I loved thee ! and still love thee ; Though I shall meet no more The smile, on this -side Heaven, That made my bliss of yore ; For still the memory liveth Of thy unchanging truth, And keeps the flame still burning That warmed the breast of youth. SUKSUM COEDA. Poor, unhoping sons of toil, Tillers of a barren soil, That in tears do sow, again, Year by year, to reap in pain, Pinched by hunger and by cold, Till your hearts in youth are old ; Mourners, who have seen in dust Crumbled every hope and trust, SuRSUM CORDA ! Ye who have to earth been trod, And forgotten seem of God ; Nations, in whose life's warm tide Is the royal purple dyed ; Poland, that didst struggle on Manfully till name was gone ; Erin, that for years hast borne Chains and stripes and bitter scorn, SuRSUM CoRDA ! 188 SURSUM CORDA. God will yet reward your toil, Patient tillers of the soil ; Ye who hunger He will feed ; Heal the wounds that inly bleed ; Strike from lordly brows the crown, And the tyrant's throne cast down : . Then, ye trampled nations ! then Shall ye rise and stand like men. SURSUM CORDA ! THE SOLDIER OF MARY, Beauty is a flower that all who look upon must ad- mire ; but the loveliest of flowers soon ceases to delight us, if it hath nothing hut its gay colours to recommend it. The flower is of little value without its perfume, and the charm of beauty is goodness. Many might be called more beautiful than the Princess Marguerite, yet she was emi- nently fair; but in no one, in the wide domain of her cousin, the puissant king of France, was so much beauty united to such exalted goodness. The high rank of Marguerite commanded the outward homage of all who approached her ; her beauty the admi- ration of all who beheld her ; her goodness the love of all who knew her. From the prince to the peasant, all loved the gentle Marguerite ; — all but the young Count Hilaire ; — and he adored her. The Count Hilaire, just returned from foreign travel, was the admiration of the court of the gallant Francois. 190 THE SOLDIER OF MARY. The elegance of his person ; the grace of his manner ; his skill as a musician ; the tenderness of his verses ; and his * gallantry in the tournament, was each the theme of com- mendation ; and the fairest, and the proudest, and the no- blest dames of his native land vied with one another in their endeavours to attract the notice of the noble youth ;— all but the Princess Marguerite. She made no effort to win his regard ; but she often remembered him in her prayers. At a banquet, in honour of one who had reaped by his sword a plenteous harvest of renown, Count Hilaire was seated opposite the Princess, who was listening with marked attention to the distinguished guest, on whom she now and then bestowed a smile of courtesy ; but which the enamoured youth construed into smiles of affection. His heart swelled with envy ; and, as he retired for the night, he said to himself, " I too will be a soldier." He threw himself on his couch ; but notwithstanding the perturbation of his mind, did not forget, ere he dispos- ed himself to sleep, to address his customary prayer to our Blessed Lady — a prayer which had been taught him in his infancy by his excellent and pious mother. He slept ; and the world of dreams was unfolded to his view. He beheld an extended plain covered with castles TH3 SOLDIER OS 1 MARY. 191 and hovels, cities and hamlets, and crowded with human beings of every degree. By his side were two youths, who, from their resemblance, might be brothers. One, bedight in all the trappings of war, was mounted on a richly caparisoned steed, that, pawed the ground with impatience for the onset ; and the other, clad in the coarse garb of a monk, stood in a musing attitude, leaning on his staff. The Soldier bounded forward ; but the departure of the Man of Peace was so quietly made that liilaire marked it not. The career of the soldier now drew the eyes of every one upon him. He soon gathered around him a band of daring men, to whom his will was law. The number of his followers increased with his power to reward them ; and in a little time he was at the head of a powerful army. His advance was hailed with shouts and gratulations, and the most beautiful damsels scattered flowers before him. But curses followed where he went, and his path to glory was tracked with blood. The soldier pressed on. His name became great among the nations ; and the place where his ashes at last Were laid was marked by a tower of enduring marble that thrust its proud head up into the very clouds. " I too will be a soldier," said Hilaire in his heart. 192 THE SOLDIER OF MART. Hilaire had quite forgotten the other youth, until his eyes -wandered over the desolation that remained as a memorial of the soldier's progress. Then he descried a toilsome and patient being, going from ruin to ruin, and sufferer to sufferer ; building'up what had been cast down ; healing the wounded, and speaking comfort to the sorrow- ful ; blessing, and receiving blessings in return ; when he thought of him a moment with pity, and then let him pass from his memory, " Look beyond," said some one in a voice of melody. And turning, he saw standing by his side a being of celes- tial loveliness. The outline of the figure was hidden by a robe of glistening white, that fell in graceful folds from shoulders to the feet. But the face was like the face of Marguerite, and on the fair calm brow was placed a crown of heavenly radiance, Hilaire followed the direction of the outstretched hand ; and beyond the place where once stood the monument of the soldier, but which time had crumbled into dust, saw revealed the eternal destiny of him who had, while on earth, been worshipped as a god. But that destiny must not be told. Let it suffice, that the youth turned from it with loathing and with horror. " Look again," said the voice, " and then choose." He looked. And lo ! amid multitudes of glorious be- THE SOLDIER OF MARY. 193 ings, whose faces were radiant with joy, and whose voices were continually raised in songs of thanksgiving and praise, he beheld the lowly and despised Man of Peace. The vision passed ; and Hilaire awoke . His choice was made. At an early hour in the morning, Hilaire repaired to the nearest church to offer up his thanks for the lesson that Heaven had bestowed upon him in his sleep ; and the first thing he beheld on entering was, over an altar dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, a picture of the celestial being who had visited him in his dream ; and from that hour he took upon himself the title of "The Soldier of Mary." It was soon noised abroad, that the young and gallant Count Hilaire had withdrawn from the gayeties of the court, and the favour of his sovereign, to shut himself up in the gloom of the cloister ; and many a lovely dame, whose heart had been stung by his neglect of her charms, uttered bitter words in contempt of his folly. But the high-minded and generous Marguerite uttered prayers of thankfulness in secret for the wisdom of his choice, and very soon followed his example. But the Soldier of Mary was not permitted long to re- main in his beloved retirement. A new world beyond the waste of waters had been chosen for the field of his enter- prise. With a small company of devoted servants of the 9 194 THE SOLDIER OF MART. Cross, he left the sunny land of his nativity, to brave the perils of the deep, and the rigours of a northern clime, that he might plant the standard of salvation amid the ruins of barbarism and idolatry. They had scarce lost sight of land when a terrible storm arose ; and the waves, rising in their fury, threatened im- mediate destruction to their frail bark, which was tossed about like a feather by the breath of autumn ; for the Prince of the Powers of Air, who had long reigned des- potically over the mighty regions of the west, was in dread of the conquests to be achieved by the servants of the Lord of Life, and had taken this means to destroy them. But the Soldier of Mary called aloud upon the name of his Mistress ; and immediately the darkness dispersed ; the winds were hushed, and the troubled waters of the ocean became instantly calm. But a greater peril awaited him on the land than on the seas. A savage chieftain, to whom he went to speak words of mercy and of joy, took and bound him prisoner, and con- demned him to a sudden and terrible death. But this was not the peril ; for death is what the soldier must be always ready to meet. His peril was in the rescue from destruc- tion. THE SOLDIER OF MART. 195 The chieftain had an only child — a daughter — whose beauty was extolled above that of all the women of her tribe. This child of the wilderness had looked upon the prisoner of her father with the eyes of affection ; and when the fire was to be lighted that was to consume his body, threw herself at the feet of the chief, and sued for his life. Her prayer was granted ; the thongs that had bound the prisoner were cut, and he was once more free. And now began his trial. In requital for the service she had rendered him, the maiden, untrammelled by the customs of a more elevated state of society, demanded his love. But love he had not to give. The treasure which he had once been willing to cast at the feet of the noble Marguerite, had long since been laid upon the altar of religion — never to be with- drawn, but at the price of his eternal welfare. And now it was that the assistance of his gracious Mis- tress became truly efficacious. He was on the point of yielding to the untutored eloquence of the impassioned girl, and the weakness of his own nature, when he sent up to her a despairing cry for aid ; and in a moment the firm- ness of the soldier returned. In the conquest of himself, he had overcome his worst enemy ; and he was not long in convincing the ingenuous savage, that the heart has something more worthy of its love than an earthly object. 196 THE SOLDIER OF MAKY. Thenceforth the course of the Soldier of Mary was on- ward ; adding every day new subjects to the kingdom of the Lord of Life, until no trace was left in the bowed and feeble old man, of the gay and gallant Count Hilaire. And now he prepared him for his speedy departure from the land of exile. For this purpose he every day retired to a secret place in the forest, where he spent many hours ab- sorbed in prayer. One day he retired at the usual hour ; but he came not back when he was expected. His companions awaited his return with much impatience, until the shades of evening had darkened the tops of the neighbouring mountains. Then impatience became alarm. But, though they sought diligently, and called upon his name throughout the night, the ruddy morning found him still absent. At length his retreat was discovered. Cassock and breviary, crucifix and rosary, were there ; but the Soldier of Mary was never more seen on earth. THE GUAEDIAN ANGEL. It is not alone, when night has drawn her dusky folds around us, and the hand of gentle sleep is laid upon our eyelids, that glimpses of a brighter and a better world are revealed unto us ; but often, even in our waking hours, when we have shut from our minds the sordid cares of earth, and purified our hearts from all unholy desires, are we visited by gleams of a splendour that far outshines the sun, and behold the beautiful and the blessed, whom God has commissioned to conduct his children to their everlast- ing home. These may be dreams ; but they are at least the foreshadowings of a blissful reality. I was lying one evening, not many moons agone, on a grassy hillock, over which the hand of spring had scattered innumerable flowers, lulled by the songs of a choir of " winged worshippers," that made vocal the darkening grove on my right, and looking up to the blue expanse 9* 198 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. above me, which had not yet lost the rich glow borrowed from the departing sun, whose last rays still brightened the tops of the dark pines that were swayed to and fro by the breath of the " sweet south." Suddenly the heavens opened ; and an angel, clad in robes of dazzling white, descended to the earth ; and, following him in his course, I saw him enter an humble cottage, and take his stand by the cradle of a sleeping babe, whose cherub brow had just been marked with the sign of man's salvation. The child of heaven bent with a radiant smile over his brother of the earth; and as that smile was reflected in the face of the sleeper, the young mother knelt and kissed her infant, and, in the joy of her fond heart, blessed it. Days, weeks, and months now seemed to roll by, and the young child was attacked by a slow and wasting dis- ease, that threatened to deprive the mother of her treasure; yet still the angel hovered around the couch of his little charge ; and when, overcome with watching, the eyes of the mother were closed in slumber and forgetfulness, he knew no weariness, and under the shadow of his protect- ing wings, the babe slept on securely. Now there stretched before me a beautiful meadow, clothed in the richest verdure, and adorned with golden flowers; aud thither, led by the angel, came the little child to play ; when, pleased with one flower more beau- tiful than the rest, he hastened to crop it; and. because THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 19S his companion would have restrained him, tore himself from his grasp. Then I beheld, for the first time, a shade pass over the bright face of the angel; but this was quick- ly dispelled. A bee, that was industriously gathering honey from the flower, which the child would have plucked, the next moment to throw away, had become angry with and stung him ; and he now came weeping to his friend. But I knew, when I saw the brightness return to the face of the angel, that he did not rejoice in the pain inflicted by the bee, but for the salutary lesson it was designed to teach — that the wayward are only to be reclaimed by suf- fering. Years passed ; and the helpless child had become a gay and fearless boy, seeking amusement in every thing that attracted his eye, or could engage his fancy. Now freight- ing his tiny bark, and launching it on the bosom of the ever-hurrying tide ; now pursuing with eagerness the down which the wind had stolen from the thistle, or the glitter" ing butterfly that wantoned in the sun ; now ascending a tree, to peep at the small blue and white eggs, which the bird had left unguarded in her nest, or scaling the almost inaccessible cliff, to pluck the honeysuckle that hung from its brow ; and though from all enterprises of hazard the voice of the angel strove to dissuade him, yet, when his warning was unheeded, instead of abandoning his charge to the consequences of his folly, he remained patiently with him, and aided him in retrieving many a false step. 200 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. The boy was now a youth, full of bright thoughts, and hopes of high achievement ; and the neigh of the war-steed, the shrill blast of the clarion, and the shout of the onset, filled his ear with music, and made his heart bound with rapture ; and he panted for the moment when he might doff the garb of peace, and win, by the prowess of his arm, the laurel wreath that Glory held forth for the brow of the victor. But the angel led him to the scene of con- flict when the battle was fought ; and when he beheld the destruction of the husbandman's hope ; the smoking ruins of the peasant's cot, and the carnage that strewed the fa- tal field, he felt that the true glory of man was to save and not to destroy. The change from youth to manhood was very rapid ; and I saw that the brow of the angel besame more grave as his charge drew nearer to that important period ; for he could not but mark with what an eager gaze he turned, from the dry and dusty road he was urged to pursue, to the flowery, though devious, paths that led through a smi. ling valley, that stretched afar to the left, where birds were gayly singing in the boughs that were waving to and fro in the gentle breeze. Yet for awhile he plodded on, un- til he was met by one in-glistening robes, and flowing tress- es wreathed with flowers, whose beauty was dazzling to behold. With a smile that gave new lustre to the day, she approached with a step of grace, and in a voice that thrilled with joy the heart of the listener, invited him to THE GUARBIAN ANGEL. 20 1 accompany her to the bower she had prepared for him in the pleasant valley. He readily complied • although the voice of the angel was raised to stay him ; and when the friend, who had been sent to conduct him home, saw the object of his great solicitude turn away to follow the beau- tiful enchantress, he bowed his head in sorrow, and cover- ed his bright face with his wings. With a buoyant step, the young man followed his con- ductress, whose name was Pleasure, to a bower which seemed to him the very temple of Happiness. Here a banquet was spread that would have tempted an eremite ; and a couch was prepared that would have pleased a sybarite. But short was his enjoyment. The wine that sparkled in the crystal goblets, though delightful to the taste, left upon the tongue a bitterness that could not be removed ; the luscious fruits, like those of the Dead Sea, were nothing but ashes within ; among the flowers that formed his couch were hidden numerous thorns that pierced him to the very heart ; and, instead of the smiling face that had won his admiration, the hideous features of a gorgon now met his gaze. He started up, and would have fled ; but his feet became entangled in the briars that filled his path, and he fell prone upon the earth. With bitter tears he now bewailed his folly ; and, with many promises of wariness for the future, called upon his friend to aid him ; and, though he came not himself, the 202 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. kind angel sent to his assistance an aged pilgrim, named Repentance, who, though of a most ungracious counte- nance, that at first inspired the beholder with dread, went zealously to work, and in a very little while effected his deliverance. The road to which he now returned, seemed to him far more difficult than before. But whenever he complained of its roughness, the angel cheered him with the assurance that it would soon be at an end ; and then he would arrive at a country of vast extent, and of surpassing loveliness, where toil and suffering were utterly unknown. Once, however, he was tempted to leave it for a broader and more beaten path, that led up to a magnificent temple, to which crowds of every nation and tongue were hastening, to offer up their vows to the idol that had his shrine there- in, and who was, in their belief, the dispenser of every earthly blessing. But the pleadings of his good angel prevailed, and he restrained his feet from following that eager crowd. And well, indeed, it was that so he did ; for in a little while the pillars of the temple gave way, and the multitude of worshippers there assembled were crushed amid its ruins. Thenceforth he journeyed on, without turning either to the right or to the left, until his steps became feeble and unequal, and the dark locks of early manhood had become as white as wool. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 203 After much toil, with the aid of a staff, made like unto a cross, which had been placed in his hand by the angel, whose face was now radiant with joy, the old man reached an eminence that overlooked a black and turbid stream, upon which the blessed light of the sun had never fallen. Here he was met by a dark and shadowy being, whose face was hidden in the folds of his robe, but whom the an- gel welcomed by the name of " Brother," and relinquished to his care the mortal heir of immortality whom he had so carefully guarded. The shadow stretched forth his hand, and grasped that of the old man, and the iciness of his touch congealed the blood in his veins, and turned his heart to stone. For a moment a cloud rested upon them, and all three were hidden from my sight. The next, a gleam of the indescribable was vouchsafed me ; and songs of rapturous joy, from the tongues of angels and of just men made perfect, upon the addition of one more to their blessed company, thrilled to my inmost soul ! NOTES, mzzio.^-page 1. This was intended to be the first of three tragedies, or rather the first part of a trilogy, that should not only embody the principal events in the fife of the unfortunate Mary Stuart, but contain a vindication of her, from the charges to which she has been so unjustly subjected, for almost three hundred years. But, after considerable time spent in col- lecting the authorities necessary for my purpose, circumstances com- pelled me to relinquish my design, at least for the present, and to con" tent myself with what I had already done, to clear the memory of the poor queen of one of the foul calumnies that had been cast upon it, by those who endeavoured to justify their own baseness towards her, by blackening the character of one who, to the majority of her enemies, stood in the double relation of sovereign and of benefactress. In making Rizzio old, and not well-favoured, I have simply followed Buchanan, who certainly would have made him young and hand- some, if he could, to render more plausible the monstrous story put in circulation by him, and his brothers in iniquity, of the improper inti- macy maintained by the queen with this man, during the first months of her marriage with Darnley, the husband of her choice, and one of the handsomest men of the time. The George Douglas of the play is not, as some, who have derived their knowledge of Scottish history *rom the Waverly novels, may suppose, the George Douglas who af- terwards assisted Mary to escape from Loch Leven Castle, but the il- legitimate son of the Earl of Angus, and, consequently, a descendant of that Angus who, for his feat at the Bridge of Lauder, acquired the 10 2(K> NOTES. name of " Bell the Cat." The leading incidents of the drama, as well as the characters, with one or two trifling exceptions, are historically true. hak-teeet. — page 93. This is little more than the versification of a story I met with in Nelson's "Burgoyne's Campaigns," a work that, maugre some defects of style, deserves to he better known than it is. THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC. — page 139. The bell of the steamboat Atlantic, which was wrecked on her pas- sage from Norwich to New- York, in November, 1846, was heard to toll, it is said, for several days after that melancholy event. THE CROSS AND BEADS. page 146. Colonel G. T. M. Davis, who distinguished himself in the late war with Mexico, in writing from Camp Patterson, near Matamoras, said, " In posting sentinels the first night after our arrival, we unintention- ally enclosed within the lines, the hut of one of the tenants of Travano, located immediately on the bank of the Rio Grande. In the morning it became visible, as well as its inmate. He was the oldest man I hare ev- er seen, being upwards of a hundred years old. Yet his step was firm and elastic, his health good, and his daily occupation a tiller of the soil. His humble habitation was a small straw hut, about six feet wide and eight feet long. Its furniture was a pallet in one end, made of an ox- hide ; a couple of spears ; a knife ; a few shoemaker's tools, and a gun. His larder consisted of a sack partly, filled with dry corn and a few squashes ; and his wardrobe, of a large brimmed hat, a coarse cotton shirt, pantaloons of the same material, and a pair of coarsely made shoes. Around his neck was a string of beads ; and at the entrance of his hut, upon an upright post, was placed a rudely made cross of about ten inches in length. This cross, and the beads that decorated his time- wrinkled neck, were the emblems of his religion. In answer to ques- tions put to him at my request by an interpreter, lie stated they were his only companions ; that for eighty years he had been a commini- cant in the Catholic Church ; and that his religion was to him his great- NOTES. 207 est, his chief source of consolation and enjoyment. I instructed the interpreter to ask him if he would let me have the cross. Never shall I forget the expression that darkened his countenance. His reply -was : " No, siguor, no signor. The Captain can take every thing else I have got on earth, if he will spare me that cross and my beads. If he takes them, I hope he will take my life with them r ! " A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE. page 148. These verses were suggested by the melancholy story of a poor Irish girl, who having sent the earnings of many months to the relief of her suffering family at home, was so overcome, by hearing that the intended aid had been too late to save them from starvation, as entire- ly to lose her reason. THE EMPEROR AND THE NUN. page 159. Lady Dufferin, in her beautiful poem, " The ' Gates of Rome, the Gates of Heaven," having overlooked the part taken by the late Holy Father, Gregory XVI., in the diffuculty between the Emperor Nicholas and the Polish nun, Makrina, abbess of Minsk, these verses were writ- ten to supply the deficiency. The " Scourge of God" was the name given to Attila, and the tyrant of Russia has fully established his claim to the same title. george davis. — page 171. I take a melancholy pleasure in publishing these lines, little as their merit certainly is, for the opportunity it affords me of bear- ing testimony to the worth of one who, whatever might have been his faults, was incapable of an act of injustice to the meanest of his fellowmen, and who at all times treated with manly scorn, everything that had even the semblance of meanness or duplicity. THE SOLDIER OF MARY. page 189. Something like the closing incident in this prose poem, is related by Bancroft in his History of America. 208 The following lines, taken in part from a very early publication) are transferred to these pages, for the purpose of correcting a mistake into which some of my friends have fallen respecting my birthplace. Think not, because another name So often in my song is heard, That I my Native Land disclaim ; — The land to all preferred. no. But she is glorious ! — free ! — Renowned among the Powers of earth ; While sunk in wretchedness is she Who gave my father birth. The one, a mother wise and good, And honoured, I in reverence hold ; The other pity, as I would A grandam poor and old. And do not, though poor Erin's name So often in my song is heard, Mine own America disclaim — To all the world preferred ! Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS iipiiiin 015 785 520 7 / - - y t .' • - - ■ ■ ■ ■ • MMMMHHHHMMm ■ i -..■/)■■ ■ ■ ■ ■ - ... • - ■ • -