conscious wife had gone into Mrs. Coney's and was trying on that lady's redingote. Then he prayed, and howled, and coughed, and swore, and then apologized for it, and prayed and howled again, and screamed at the top of his voice the awfullest things he would do to that boy if heaven would only spare him and show him an axe. Then he opened his mouth for one final shriek, when the door opened and Mrs. Coville appeared with a smile on her face, and Mrs. Coney's redingote on her back. In one glance she saw that something awful had happened to Joseph, and with wonderful presence of mind she screamed for help, and then fainted away, and ploughed headlong into his stomach. Fortunately the blow deprived him of speech, else he might have said something that he would ever have regretted, and before he could regain his senses Mrs. Coney dashed in and removed the grief-stricken wife. But it required a blacksmith to cut Coville loose. He is again back in bed, with his mutilated fingers resting on pillows, and there he lies all day concocting new forms of death for the inventor of that chair, and hoping nothing will happen to his son until he can get well enough to administer it himself. -Danbury News. THE LIKENESS. William was holding in his hand Fresh as if touched by fairy hand, He almost thought it spoke-he gazed Absorbed, delighted, and amazed, He viewed the artist's skill. "This picture is yourself, dear Jane, I've kissed it o'er and o'er again, It is so much like you." "And has it kissed you back, my dear?" 66 Why, no, my love," said he. "Then, William, it is very clear, 'Tis not at all like me,” MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. It was a laboring bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on the deck a lady sat who looked with tearful gaze Upon the fast-receding hills within the distant haze. The past was fair, 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, dear France, to thee!" The breeze comes forth-she's there alone upon the wide, wide 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 seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. The touch of care had blanched her cheeks, her smile was sadder now, The weight of royalty had lain too heavy on her brow; 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 soothed her into smiles, They won her thoughts from bigot zeal and fierce domestic broils. But hark, the tramp of armed men? the Douglas' battle-cry! They come, they come! and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye! Around an unarmed man they crowd-Ruthven in mail complete, George Douglas, Ker of Fawdonside, and Rizzio at their feet! With rapiers drawn and pistols bent they seized their wretch ed prey, Wrenched Mary's garments from his grasp, and stabbed him where he lay. I saw George Douglas raise his arm, I saw his dagger gleam; Then sounded Rizzio's dying cry and Mary's piteous scream. I saw her writhe in Darnley's arms as in a serpent's fold: The coward! he was pale as death, but would not loose his hold. And then the torches waved and shook, and louder grew the din, And up the stairs and through the doors the rest came trooping in. But Mary Stuart brushed aside the burning tears that fell: "Now for my father's arm!" she gasped; "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 snatched the crown from her an' cestral 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 rend and give to any wind that blows, And reign a queen, a Stuart yet, in spite of all my foes!" A red spot burned upon her cheek-streamed her rich tresses down, She wrote the words; she stood erect-a queen without a crown! 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 checked her steed upon a hill, she saw them marching by, Scattered, struck down or flying far, defenseless and undone Ah, me! to see what she has lost, to think what guilt has won! Away, away! her gallant steed must act no laggard's part; Yet vain his speed to bear her from the anguish at her heart Last scene of all. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood, Gleamed in his hand the murderous axe that soon must drip with blood. With slow and stately step there came a lady thro' the hall, And breathless silence chained the lips and touched the hearts of all; Kich were the sable robes she wore; her white veil round her fell, And from her neck there hung a cross-the cross she loved so well! I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom Though grief and care had decked it out, an offering for the tomb. I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone; I knew the voice, still musical, that thrilled with every tone; Could see her as in youth she looked upon her bridal morn, Now see her on the scaffold stand, beside the block, alone! Her neck is bare-the axe descends-the soul has passed away! The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay. LAST PRAYER OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. W. G. CLARKE It was the holy twilight hour, and clouds in crimson pride Sailed through the golden firmament, in the calm evening tide, The peasants' cheerful song was hushed, by every hill ano glen, The city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men, And as night's sombre shades came down, o'er day's resplen dent eye, A faded face, from a 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. CCC Oh! who can paint the bitter thoughts, that o'er her spiri stole As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep control! While, shadowed from life's vista back, thronged mid her falling 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 on her brow, no tear to dim her eye, When there frowned no cloud of sorrow, in her being's fes tal sky. Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early vision 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 imaginings first ray of pleasure's sun. Perchance the walk in evening hour, the impassioned kiss or vow, The warm tear on the kindling cheek, the smile upon the brow But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled, As 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 deep thoughts, and eloquent, in pensive num bers 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 o'er 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 mournfu! song. "The shades of evening gather now o'er this mysterious earth, The viewless winds are whispering in wild capricious mirth, The gentle moon hath come to shed a flood of glory round, That, through this soft and still repose, sleeps richly on the ground, And in the free sweet gales that sweep along my prison bar Heem borne the pure deep harmonies of every kindling star. |