MARY STUART AND HER MOURNER.

The axe its bloody work had done;

The corpse neglected lay;

This peopled world could spare not one

To watch beside the clay.

The fairest work from Nature's hand

That e'er on mortals shone,

A sunbeam stray'd from fairy land

To fade upon a throne;—

The Venus of the Tomb whose form

Was destiny and death;

The Siren's voice that stirr'd a storm

In each melodious breath;—

Such was, what now by fate is hurl'd

To rot, unwept, away.

A star has vanish'd from the world;

And none to miss the ray!

Stern Knox, that loneliness forlorn

A harsher truth might teach

To royal pomps, than priestly scorn

To royal sins can preach!

No victims now that lip can make!

That hand how powerless now!

O God! and what a King — but take

A bauble from the brow?

The world is full of life and love;

The world methinks might spare

From millions, one to watch above

The dust of monarchs there.

And not one human eye!— yet lo

What stirs the funeral pall?

What sound — it is not human woe —

Wails moaning through the hall?

Close by the form mankind desert

One thing a vigil keeps;

More near and near to that still heart

It wistful, wondering creeps.

It gazes on those glazed eyes,

It hearkens for a breath —

It does not know that kindness dies,

And love departs from death.

It fawns as fondly as before

Upon that icy hand.

And hears from lips, that speak no more,

The voice that can command.

To that poor fool, alone on earth,

No matter what had been

The pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth,

The Dead was still a Queen.

With eyes that horror could not scare,

It watch'd the senseless clay:—

Crouch'd on the breast of Death, and there

Moan'd its fond life away.

And when the bolts discordant clash'd,

And human steps drew nigh,

The human pity shrunk abash'd

Before that faithful eye;

It seem'd to gaze with such rebuke

On those who could forsake;

Then turn'd to watch once more the look,

And strive the sleep to wake.

They raised the pall — they touch'd the dead,

A cry, and both were still'd,—

Alike the soul that Hate had sped,

The life that Love had kill'd.

Semiramis of England, hail!

Thy crime secures thy sway:

But when thine eyes shall scan the tale

Those hireling scribes convey;

When thou shalt read, with late remorse,

How one poor slave was found

Beside thy butcher'd rival's corse,

The headless and discrown'd;

Shall not thy soul foretell thine own

Unloved, expiring hour,

When those who kneel around the throne

Shall fly the falling tower;

When thy great heart shall silent break,

When thy sad eyes shall strain

Through vacant space, one thing to seek

One thing that loved — in vain?

Though round thy parting pangs of pride

Shall priest and noble crowd;

More worth the grief, that mourn'd beside

Thy victim's gory shroud!