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"O name him not," the Queen exclaim'd, “the false, the recreant slave,
"But be his memory buried deep within the silent
"And as he lived a traitor's life, and met a catiff's doom,
"O let his faults lie hidden far within the traitor's tomb.
"For none on earth doth truly know my secret pain and strife,
"And how I prayed that Heaven would grant excuse to save his life;
"And had he only ask'd for grace, nor all my love withstood,
"My woman's heart had pardon'd him, though Justice claim'd his blood."
Then deep convulsive pangs once more the dying Countess shook,
She cast upon her injured Queen a meek, imploring look ;
“And oh,” she cried, "sweet mistress mine, for Jesu's sake forgive,
"As thou with all his saints in bliss would'st henceforth hope to live.
"Lord Essex was most penitent, but not from craven fear,
"His love and duty prompted him to shed the bitter
"He bade me seek thy face and strive to turn thy
"And Essex dies a penitent' was all he bade me
"And 'take,' he cried, this signet ring that our sweet lady gave,
"And said, if sent to her, that pledge, her richest boon might crave;'
"But a rival's hatred prompted me to do a deadly thing,
"I spoke Lord Essex fair, but false, and kept from you the ring."
"Then horror seized that injured Queen, 'twas long before she spoke,
At length, in tones by fury lent her maddened feelings broke ;
She shook the dying Countess hard till life was nigh to flee,
And "ask for grace from Heaven," she cried, "but ask for none from me!"
The suff'rer falls upon her couch, to pain and grief a
And her maids have crowded round the Queen, and borne her far away;
And soon the Countess sank beneath her mind and
And the Queen hath sought her palace halls and never smiled again.
The Pebble and the Acorn.
"I am a Pebble, and yield to none," Were the swelling words of a tiny stone; "Nor change nor season can alter me; I am abiding while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
None can tell of the Pebble's birth;
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
And soon in the earth she sank away
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke
What was enclosed in her simple shell,—
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
The Pebble could not its vow forget,
And it lies there wrapp'd in silenee yet.
H. F. GOULD.
The Traveller's Evening Hymn.
FATHER, guide me! day declines,
Father! in the forest dim
Be my stay!