_Written in 1778._
Now, cease these tears, lay gentle Virgil by,
Let recent sorrows dim thy pausing eye;
Shall Æneas for lost Creusa mourn,
And tears be wanting on Abella's urn?
Like him, I lost my fair one in my flight
From cruel foes, and in the dead of night.
Shall he lament the fall of Ilion's tow'rs,
And we not mourn the sudden ruin of ours?
See York on fire--while, borne by winds, each flame
Projects its glowing sheet o'er half the main,
The affrighted savage, yelling with amaze,
From Allegany sees the rolling blaze.
Far from these scenes of horror, in the shade
I saw my aged parent safe conveyed;
Then sadly followed to the friendly land
With my surviving infant by the hand:
No cumbrous household gods had I, indeed,
To load my shoulders and my flight impede;
Protection from such impotence who'd claim?
My Gods took care of me--not I of them.
The Trojan saw Anchises breathe his last
When all domestic dangers he had passed;
So my lov'd parent, after she had fled,
Lamented, perish'd on a stranger's bed:
--He held his way o'er the Cerulian main,
But I returned to hostile fields again.
THE LAST PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
BY W. G. CLARK.
"O Domini Deus speravi in te,
O caru mi Jesu nunc libera me:
In dura catena, in misera pena,
Desidera te--
Languendo, gemando, et genuflectendo,
Adoro, imploro, ut liberas me!"[P]
It was the holy twilight hour, when clouds of crimson glide
Along the calm blue firmament, hushed in the evening tide;
When the peasant's cheerful song was hushed, by every hill and glen,
When the city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men;
And as Night's sombre shade came down o'er Day's resplendant eye,
A faded face, from prison cell, gazed out upon the sky;
For to that face the glad, bright sun of earth for aye had set,
And the last time had come, to mark eve's starry coronet.
Oh, who can paint the bitter thoughts that o'er her spirit stole,
As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep controul--
When shadowed from life's vista back, throng'd 'mid her
bursting tears,
The phantasies of early hope--dreams of departed years;
When Pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flung
Their rich and echoing cadences her virgin hours among--
When there came no shadow o'er her brow, no tear to dim her eye,
When there frown'd no cloud of sorrow in her being's festal sky.
Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early visions came,
Of the trance that touched her lip with song at Love's
mysterious flame;
When she listened to the low-breathed tones of him the idol one,
Who shone in her mind's imagings first ray of pleasure's sun;
Perchance the walk in evening's hour, the impassion'd kiss and vow--
The warm tear kindling on the cheek, the smile upon the brow:
But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled,
Like a hue from April's pinion o'er earth's budding bosom shed.
And thus as star came after star into the boundless heaven,
Were her free thoughts and eloquent in pensive numbers given;
They were the offerings of a heart where grief had long held sway,
And now the night, the hour had come, to give her feelings way;
It was the last dim night of life--the sun had sunk to rest,
And the blue twilight haze had crept on the far mountain's breast;
And thus, as in her saddened heart the tide of love grew strong,
Poured her meek, quiet spirit forth this flood of mournful song:
"The shades of evening gather now o'er the mysterious earth,
The viewless winds are whispering their strains of breezy mirth;
The yellow moon hath come to shed a flood of glory round
On the silence of this calm repose, the beauty of the ground;
And in the free, sweet, gales that sweep along my prison bar,
Seem borne the soft, deep harmonies of every kindly star;
I see the blue streams dancing in the mild and chastened light,
And the gem-lit fleecy clouds that steal along the brow of night.
"Oh, must I leave existence now, while life is in its spring--
While Joy should cheer my pilgrimage with gladness from his wing?
Are the songs of Hope for ever flown?--the syren voice which flung
The chant of Youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue?
Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling stream or bird,
Or the scented gales of Summer, when the leaves of June are stirred?
Shall the pulse of love wax fainter; and the spirit shrink from death,
As the bud-like thoughts which lit my heart fade in its
chilling breath?
"I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes
are gone,
And I turn to Thee, Redeemer, oh, thou blest and holy one!
Though the rose of health has vanished, and the mandate hath
been spoken,
And one by one the golden links of life's fond chain are broken,
Yet can my spirit turn to thee, thou chastener, and can bend
In humble suppliance at thy feet, my Father and my Friend!
Thou who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee,
Give me the eagle's fearless wing--the dove's to mount to thee!
"I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears--
How brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years!
I give my heart to earth no more--the grave may clasp me now--
The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough;
The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away,
And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay;
I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each
kindred breast,
'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'"