I have not sought in battle-field

A wreath of such renown,

Nor dared I hope on my dying day

To win the martyr's crown!

'There is a chamber far away

Where sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have named for me
Than by my father's grave.

For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,
This hand hath always striven,
And ye raise it up for a witness still
In the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower
Give every town a limb

And God who made shall gather them;
I go from you to Him!'

The morning dawned full darkly,

The rain came flashing down,

And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt

Lit up the gloomy town :

The thunder crashed across the heaven,

The fatal hour was come;

Yet aye broke in with muffled beat,

The 'larm of the drum.

There was madness on the earth below

And anger in the sky,

And young and old, and rich and poor

Came forth to see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal 't is to see

The great tall spectral skeleton,

The ladder and the tree!

Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms

The bells begin to toll

'He is coming! he is coming! God's mercy on his soul!' One last long peal of thunder

The clouds are cleared away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down
Amidst the dazzling day.

'He is coming! he is coming!'
Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero from his prison
To the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead,
There was lustre in his eye,
And he never walked to battle
More proudly than to die;
There was color in his visage

Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvelled as they saw him pass,
That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he looked upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether

The

eye of God shone through. Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within
All else was calm and still.

He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee;

And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace Beneath the gallows-tree.

Then radiant and serene he rose,

And cast his cloak away:

For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him,
Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder

As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dared to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky -
The work of death was done!

FROM BOTHWELL.' 27

PURITAN AUSTERITY.

FROM PART I.

GONE were the merry times of old

The masque, and mirth, and glee, And wearier was the palace then

Than prison needs to be.
Forbidden were the vesper bells, —
They broke the sabbath calm!
Hushed were the notes of minstrelsy —

They chimed not with the psalm:

'T was sin to smile, 't was sin to laugh, 'T was sin to sport or play,

And heavier than a hermit's fast
Was each dull holiday.

Was but the sound of laughter heard,

Or tinkling of a lute,

Or, worse than all, in royal hall,

The tread of dancing foot — Then to a drove of gaping clowns, Would Knox with unction tell The vengeance that in days of old Had fallen on Jezebel !

THE ASSASSINATION OF RICCIO.

THE SAME.

THERE was that Riccio-sharp and sly, No friend of mine, I swear,

For in that dark Italian eye

Was craft beyond my mastery,

And in his cold and subtle smile

I read the evidence of guile

Was deep implanted there.

He could not bend me to his will
No fanatic was I,

Nor would I lend a helping hand
To rivet on my native land

The chains of Italy.

Right little cared I for the creeds
Of either Church, I trow;

I recked not which should win or lose,
And more I reck not now.

But lost on me was all his speech,
His policy was vain:

What was to me the Papal cause

In France or yet in Spain? I never stood, as Atholl did,

A soldier sworn of Rome, Nor asked for foreign surgery

To staunch the wounds at home.
Yet Riccio may have faithful been,
And to his mistress true,

For those who hated him the worst
Were knaves and traitors too.
I cannot tell but this I know,
That till my dying hour

I never shall forget the shriek
That rung from Mary's bower.

'Twas night-mirk night-the sleet beat on,
The wind, as now, was rude,
And I was lonely in my room
In dreary Holyrood.

I heard a cry, a tramp of men,

A clash of steel below,

And from my window, in the court

I saw the torches glow.

More common were such sounds to me
Than hum of evening hymn;

I caught my sword, and hurried out

Along the passage dim.

But O, the shriek that thrilled me then

The accents of despair,

The man's imploring agony,

The woman's frantic prayer!

'O, for the love of God and Christ, Have mercy mercy — I !

O mistress Queen, -protect me yet,
I am not fit to die!'