POETRY.

.dy's Book for February, iS4l.

From the Lady's Book for February, i04I'
On SEEING, AT HoLYRooD PALAcf, TIE CAM
pELABRA, WHICH MARY, QUEEN OF


Scors, BROUGHT FROM FRANCE.
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BY MRS LYDIA II. sIGoURhEY.
And didst thou bear this relic here


From France, where genial sunbeams shin'
Where ripen'd d, sweet, thine early bloom,
Thou fairest flower of Stuarts line'
And say, at twilight's dusky hour,


Did shadowy wings around 1t glide,
And imag'd forms of lost delight


Fit mournful DER its fretted SIDE
But did its light grow dim and cold,


Amid the realm so drear and lone,
Whose ruthless manners unrehned,


So i'll interpreted thine own
An, were thy errors all resolvd,


To their first elemental fount,
Would not thy dark and evil times


Share deeply in their dire amount'
We may not say, we only know


Their record rests with Him on high,
Who iudgeth not like finite man,


With partial, or vndictive eye.
I've stood upon the castle height


Where green Carlisle her turrets rcars,
And muse upon the prison cell,


Thy fallen hopes, thy captive tears.
When from Lochlevens guarded fosse,
From Langsdes stormy gleam of bliss,
Thou threw st thyself on woman s faltn,
On kindred blood-for this for this
I've mark d along the curded moat


Thy stinted walk, mid soldiers grim,
And dreamd thine echoed footsteps still,
Game minglng with thy vesper hymn.
Yet, naught mid all storied lore


Hath brought thee to my soul SO near
AS every household vestage slight,


Old Holyrood doth treasure here.
The chair of state, thy couch of rest,
Too oft, perchance, of wakeful woe,
The classic arras coarsely wrought,
The walls where ancient pictures glow,
The work box, whence thy tasteful hand
Drew forth the embroidery rich and rare,
And in that quiet toll forget


The ranking thorns of regal care;
The basket, where thy infants robes,
With blush of kindling pride were PLACID
As warm thy raptur'd bosom drank


The Joys that none but mothers taste;
Thy closet nook, thine evening board,
Rude Darnley's armour scatter'd nigh,
Fierce Ruthvens hoars, ly murderous shout,
And Rizzos shrlll, imploring cry.
Thy pangs, thy faults, thy fearful doom,
Come thronging back with magic power,
AHd wake the plying tear for thee,


Old Scotia's bright and slnitten flower.
Edinburgh.