Stern men stood menacing their queen till she should stoop to

sign

The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ances

tral 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

crown!

a queen without a

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,
She 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

-oh, where and what

-

are they? 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:

Rich 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;
I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold;
I knew that bounding step of grace, that symmetry of mold.
And memory sought her far away in that calm convent aisle,
Could hear her chant her vesper-hymn, could mark her holy
smile;

Could see her as in youth she looked upon her bridal morn,
A new star in the firmament to light and glory born!
Alas, the change! her daring foot had touched a triple throne-
Now see her on the scaffold stand, beside the block, alone!
A little dog that licks her hand the last of all the crowd
Who sunned themselves beneath her glance or round her foot-
steps bowed!

Her neck is bare the axe descends the soul has passed

away!

The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay.

MY MULE.

I own a mule. It is the first mule I ever had, and will be the last one. My mind is my mule.

I suppose many other people have mules of the same kind. I notice that in every phrenological picture-chart of the human head the mule has the top place among the hieroglyphics.

A mule, according to the prevalent opinion, does not regulate his movements strictly according to the will of his owner. The mule's business hours do not always correspond to those of his driver, and some inconvenience is often occasioned thereby to both parties. I think Mark Twain slanders the mule, and yet we must allow that the mule is troublesome at times.

Sometimes when I am most anxious that my mule shall go, he deliberately stands still. I try to spur him forward, but he refuses to budge. I have seen men in the pulpit and on the rostrum very much in the plight of the driver of a rebellious mule. They stormed, they hammered, but they could not get under way. I would rather be the gazing-stock on Broadway,

hammering and clubbing a stubborn mule, than to stand before an audience in a vain attempt to force my mind into action when it doesn't want to go. I have tried it.

For

I have tried patting and coaxing, and I have tried jerking and spurring. Now I make a desperate effort. I summon all my strength; I determine that my mind shall go. It does move as though it would go. It makes a few wild plunges, and away I go on a flight of imagination that I think must give me a fair start. I begin an ambitious sentence. ward I am carried with a rush. I am going-going. I am not just sure where I am going, I add one word after another, and suddenly—the mule stops. But down comes whip and spur, and with a bound I am off into another bold, emphatic sentence ·yip — yip —

"Now it goes, now it goes,

Now it stands still."

The mule has stopped, and I get off very ungracefully.
My mule is troublesome in another way.

He gets started, goes like a whirlwind or tempest, and refuses to stop at my bidding.

Bedtime comes. I go to bed. I want to sleep.

Whoa!

whoa! but on the mule goes, and I can't get off. I shift from side to side. I determinedly resolve to think about nothing. I lie very still, I almost stop breathing, but it does not stop the thinking. I might as well try to stop the circulation of the blood by a mandate of the will. I am astride the mule, and the mule is going on the jump.

I pull back with all my might, but it avails nothing. Through the city, through the country, here and there and everywhere, I am carried, in spite of my protesting that I don't want to go, till the mule is exhausted—I was exhausted long ago and down he tumbles, and I drop into uneasy slumber in the scary dreamland just where the mule stops with me.

Again, mules are often seen, especially in pictures, with their heels at an angle of elevation which intimates that it is best to keep at a respectful distance. In other words, mules sometimes kick. This is the case especially when people take unbecoming liberties with their heels. My mental mule has heels, and it is difficult sometimes to keep them from flying in the faces of people that tempt them.

When some self-conceited creature, with an air of self

importance that is almost unbearable, solemnly and majesti cally begs leave to inform you that you are seriously mistaken in some unimportant little opinion which you have ventured to half express, thus rapping your mule provokingly over the heels, does he not kick instinctively?

I would not b'ame my mule for letting the heels fly up on such an occasion, if he would then resume his gravity and maintain his just equilibrium until another such provocation should be offered; but he always assumes an offensive attitude, and gets ready to kick whenever the aforesaid individual comes near.

In this, I think, he shows a bad spirit,—a characteristic, unforgiving, mule spirit. And yet I would take this occasion to suggest respectfully to some people that they are not required to rap the heels of every mule that they see. There is no evidence of lack of good breeding, nor of want of mental capacity, nor of meager information, in not disagreeing with every remark that anyone may make in your presence. It is altogether proper not to contradict every assertion which your companion may casually make in conversation with you.

Again, my mule runs away sometimes without knowing just where he is going.

Dick's mule got scared at an old stump at the roadside one day, and dashed away into the woods. (N.B.—There were no fences along the road.) It was an unpleasant excursion for Dick,-over old logs, in dangerous proximity to huge trees, dodging under branches,-until the mule was brought to a standstill in a dense thicket of brush and briers. was consoled with the thought, however, that it was a mule that did it, and so he calmly took his bearings, proceeded to extricate himself and the mule, and get back to the safe road from which he had been carried.

Dick

My mule does in a like manner sometimes. Occasionally I find myself going at a dizzy rate of speed away from my life's highway;-away from the plain road along which I have been traveling peacefully and pleasantly;-away from the long-tried and cherished truths that have been the signboards of my life's journey ;- out of the woods of doubt and uncertainty; -out and away I know not whither, until I am brought to a halt in a dense thicket, through which I cannot go and from which I have to back out. Well, my mule does it, and there is some consolation in that thought, as I hunt the way back to the old road. My mule got scared at something

he did not quite understand, and so he struck off on what urned out to be no road at all. That is all.

Thus I have learned to distinguish between myself and my nule, though we always go together.

THEODORE CROWL.

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

Word was brought to the Danish King

(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,

And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(Oh, ride as though you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:
And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;
(Hurry!)

Each one mounting a gallant steed

Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(Oh, ride as though you were flying!)

Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,

For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone.
His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying!

The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;

They passed the drawbridge with cattering din,
Then he dropped; and only the king rode in,
Where his rose of the isles lay dying!