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Scattered and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and un

done

O God! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won !

Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's

part;

Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart.

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood,

And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood.

With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall,

And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched the hearts of all;

Rich were the sable robes she wore- -her white veil round

her fell

And from her neck there hung the cross-the cross she loved so well!

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

I saw that grief had decked it out-an offering for the

tomb!

I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly

shone

I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone

I knew the ringlets, almost grey, once threads of living

gold

I knew that bounding grace of step-that symmetry of mould!

Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle,
I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile—
Even now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal morn,
A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!

Alas! the change! she placed her foot upon a triple throne, And on the scaffold now she stands-beside the block,

alone!

The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bowed!

Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul is passed away;

The bright-the beautiful-is now a bleeding piece of

clay!

The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it gurgles o'er,
Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the

floor!

The blood of beauty, wealth, and power-the heart-blood of a queen

The noblest of the Stuart race-the fairest earth hath

seen

Lapped by a dog! Go, think of it in silence and alone; Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne!

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.

BY MRS. NORTON.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and

fiery eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged

I

speed,

may not mount on thee again, thou art sold, my Arab

steed;

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy

wind

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.

The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his

gold

Fleet-limbed and beautiful! farewell: thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! these free untirèd limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home.

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed

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The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with

thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be.

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy

plain,

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home

again;

Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun

and sky,

Thy master's home, from all of these, my exiled one must fly.

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become

less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I starting wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may

chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting

side,

And the rich blood that is in thee, swells in thy indignant

pain;

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot

be

Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,

Can the hand which cast thee from it, now command thee to return.

Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view;

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,

Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage ap

pears;

Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on,

And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause, and sadly

think,

It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him

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When last I saw thee drink? . . . . Away! the fevered dream is o'er,

I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no

more.

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is

strong,

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too

long.

Who said that I had given thee up?-who said that thou wert sold?

"Tis false! 'tis false! my Arab steed,-I fling them back their gold:

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,

Away, who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

PARRHASIUS.*

BY WILLIS.

THERE stood an unsold captive in the mart,
A grey-haired and majestical old man,
Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
He had stood there since morning, and had borne
From every eye in Athens the cold gaze
Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him
For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came
And roughly struck his palm upon his breast,

And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer
Passed on; and when, with weariness o'erspent,
He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep,

The inhuman soldier smote him, and with threats
Of torture to his children, summoned back

The ebbing blood into his pallid face.

* "Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, among those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and torment, the better, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint."-Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.

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