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But when we reached the sea, and found
'Twas a great water round us spread,
We thought that father must be drowned,
And cried, and wished we both were dead.
So we returned to mother's grave,
And only long with her to be ;
For Goody, when this bread she gave,
Said, father's ship was lost at sea.
Then since no parent here we have,
We'll go and search for God around ;
Oh, sir! can you tell us where
That God, our father, may be found.
He lives in heaven, mother said,
And Goody says that mother's there,
So, if she knows we want his aid,
I think perhaps she'll send him here."
I clasped the prattlers to my breast,
And cried, “Come both and live with me,
I'll clothe you, feed you, give you rest,
And will a second parent be.
And God shall be your father still,
'Twas he in mercy sent me here;
To teach you to obey his will,
Your steps to guide, your hearts to cheer.”

PARRHASIUS.- Willis. “ Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst 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 Anat. of Mel.

The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colours stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And, in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes magical, they lay.
The walls were hung with armour, and about,
In the dim corners, stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,

And from the casement soberly away
Fell the grotesque, long shadows, full and true,
And, like a veil of filmy mellowness,
The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvass. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus,
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows wild
Forth with its reaching fancy, and with form
And colour clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,
Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight.

Bring me the captive now!
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift;

And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens, around me play
Colours of such divinity to-day.

Ha! bind him on his back!
Look ! as Prometheus in my picture here-
Quick-or he faints !-stand with the cordial near!

Now bend him to the rack !
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh !

So_let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!

Ha! grey-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan !
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan !

'Pity' thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar;
But does the robed priest for his pity falter ?

I'd rack thee, though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine:
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

• Hereafter !' Ay, hereafter!
A whip to keep a coward to his track !
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back

To check the sceptic's laughter ?
Come from the grave to-morrow, with that story,
And I may take some softer path to glory.

No, no, old man; we die
E’en as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, e'en as they

Strain well thy fainting eye;
For, when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

Yet there's a deathless name-
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn;

And though its crown of flame
Consumed any brain to ashes as it won me,
By all the fiery stars ! I'd pluck it on me.

Ay, though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst;
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first;

Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild ;-

All, I would do it all,
Sooner thar die, like a dull worm, to rot;
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot.

O heavens! but I appal
Your heart, old man ! forgive_Ha! on your lives,
Let him not faint !_rack him till he revives !

Glazes apace.

Vain, vain; give o'er! His eye

He does not feel you now
Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow.

Gods! if he do not die
But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips !

Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now that was a difficult breath
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death ?

Look ! how his temple flutters !
Is his heart still ? Aha! lift up his head !
He shudders-gasps-Jove help him—50-he's dead.”

I look'd far back into other years, and lo! in bright array,
I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away.
It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,
And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep
And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow pass’d, (falls ;
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 their flight,
And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.
The scene was changed. It was the court-the gay court of Bour.

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 has pass'd 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 assaild,
And walk'd ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have

fail'd And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their might, For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light. Here Louis, Prince of Condé, wears his all-unconquer'd sword, With great Coligni hy his side each name a household word ! And there walks she of Medicis—that proud Italian line, The mother of a race of kings the haughty Catharine !


The forms that follow in her train, a glorious sunshine make-
A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering 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 lighten 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 ? The scene was changed. It was a bark 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 Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise. No marvel that the lady wept--there was no land on earth She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth ; It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friendsIt 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 hush'd repose, and the splendours of a throne: 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 bark; 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
The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her brow; (now,
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, nd summon'd Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play

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