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Though keen the blast, and long the way, When twilight closed that dubious day, When round the table all were set,

Small heart had they to talk or eat;

Red look askance, blunt whisper low,
Awkward remark, uncourtly bow,
Were all that past in that bright throng,
That group of genuine sons of song.

One did the honours of the board.

Who seemed a courtier or a lord.

Strange his array and speech withal,
Gael deemed him southern-southern, Gael.
Courteous his mien, his accents weak,
Lady in manner as in make;

Yet round the board a whisper ran,
That that same gay and simpering man
A minstrel was of wonderous fame,
Who from a distant region came,
To bear the prize beyond the sea
To the green shores of Italy.

The wine was served, and, sooth to say,

Insensibly it stole away.

Thrice did they drain the allotted store,

And wondering skinkers dun for more ;
Which vanished swifter than the first,-
Little weened they the poets' thirst.

Still as that ruddy juice they drained,
The eyes were cleared, the speech regained;
And latent sparks of fancy glowed,
Till one abundant torrent flowed

Of wit, of humour, social glee,

Wild music, mirth, and revelry.

Just when a jest had thrilled the crowd, Just when the laugh was long and loud, Entered a squire with summons smart ;That was the knell that pierced the heart !— "The court awaits;" he bowed-was gone,

Our bards sat changed to busts of stone.

.

As ever ye heard the green-wood dell,
On morn of June one warbled swell,
If burst the thunder from on high,
How hushed the woodland melody!
Even so our bards shrunk at the view

Of what they wished, and what they knew.

Their numbers given, the lots were cast, To fix the names of first and last; Then to the dazzling hall were led,

Poor minstrels less alive than dead.

There such a scene entranced the view,

As heart of poet never knew.

"Twas not the flash of golden gear,

Nor blaze of silver chandelier;

Not Scotland's chiefs of noble air,

Nor dazzling rows of ladies fair;
"Twas one enthroned the rest above,-

Sure 'twas the Queen of grace and love!

Taper the form, and fair the breast

Yon radiant golden zones invest,

Where the vexed rubies blench in death, Beneath yon lips and balmy breath.

Coronal gems of every dye,

Look dim above yon beaming eye: Yon cheeks outvie the dawning's glow, Red shadowed on a wreath of snow.

Oft the rapt bard had thought alone, Of charms by mankind never known,

Of virgins, pure as opening day,

Or bosom of the flower of May:

Oft dreamed of beings free from stain,

Of maidens of the emerald main,

Of fairy dames in grove at even,
Of angels in the walks of heaven:
But, nor in earth, the sea, nor sky,
In fairy dream, nor fancy's eye,
Vision his soul had ever seen

Like MARY STUART, Scotland's Queen.

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