130 THE PILGRIM AND THE PEAS. A nostrum famous in old Popish times That Popish priests did for its powers exalt, But very different was their speed, I wot. The other limped as if he had been shot. Made fit, with saints above, to live for ever. In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half-way, Hobbling, with outstretched neck, and bending knees, His eyes in tears, his weary limbs dead beat, "How now?" the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke, You lazy lubber!" 66 "Oh, mercy!" cried the other, "tis no joke! My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as blubber! Excuse me, Virgin Mary, if I swear; As for Loretto, I shall not go there ; No! though unshrived my sinful soul should go; But, brother sinner, do explain How 'tis that you are not in pain ; What power hath worked a wonder for your toes; While I just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly calling, How is't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry, as if that nought had happen'd, burn ye?" "Why," said the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil my peas." Peter Pindar. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. : 131 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. PART I. I LOOK'D far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls; And o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping shadow pass'd, And all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat, beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please; And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers, That Scotland knew no prouder names, held none more dear than theirs ; And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine, Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart line. Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in the flight, And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light. The scene was changed. It was the court-the gay court of Bourbon; And 'neath a thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers throng; And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased I ween to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry. Grey Montmorency, o'er whose head had passed a storm of years, Strong in himself and children, stands the first among his peers; And next the Guises, who so well fame's steepest heights assailed, And walked ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have fail'd; And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their might, 132 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. For before hem Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light. Here Louis, Prince of Condé, wears his all unconquered sword, With great Coligni by his side-each name a household word! And there walks she of Medici- that proud Italian line, The mother of a race of kings-the haughty Catherine! The forms that follow in her train a glorious sunshine make A milky way of stars that grace a glittering comet's wake; But fairer far than all the rest who bask on Fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth is she, the new-made bride! The homage of a thousand hearts-the fond deep love of one The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun They lighted up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-soul'd joy bespeak. Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours, She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers? PART II. It was a labouring barque that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends The land where her dead husband slept the land where she had known The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 133 No marvel that the lady wept-it was the land of France, The chosen home of chivalry-the garden of romance! The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her barque, The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark! One gaze again-one long, last gaze-"Adieu, fair France, to thee !" The breeze comes forth-she is alone on the unconscious sea. The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, That seem'd to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek-her smile was sadder now— The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her brow; And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field. The Stuart sceptre well she sway'd, but the sword she could not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes-the dreams of youth's brief day, And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play The songs she loved in early years-the songs of gay Navarre, The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar. They half beguiled her of her cares, they sooth'd her into smiles, They won her thought from bigot zeal and fierce domestic broils. But hark! the tramp of arméd men, the Douglas' battle-cry! They come-they come-and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye! And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are vain The ruffian steel is in his heart-the faithful Rizzio's slain! 134 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. Then Mary Stuart brush'd aside the tears that trickling fell! "Now for my father's arm!" she said; "my woman's heart farewell!" The scene was changed. It was a lake with one small lonely isle, And there, within the prison walls of its baronial pile, Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign The traitorous scroll that snatch'd the crown from her ancestral line: "My lords, my lords!" the captive said, were I but once more free, With ten good knights on yonder shore to aid my cause and me, That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows, And once more reign a Stuart queen o'er my remorseless foes!" A red spot burn'd upon her cheek-stream'd her rich tresses down She wrote the words-she stood erect-a queen without a crown. PART III. The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore, And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen once more; She staid her steed upon a hill- she saw them marching byShe heard their shouts-she read success in every flashing eye. The tumult of the strife begins-it roars-it dies away; And Mary's troops, and banners now, and courtiers—where are they? Scattered and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone. Oh, 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 arrows in thy heart. |