Mary Stuart | Page 6

of his tongue! So I returned
Back
to the bosom of the holy church,
And at his feet abjured my heresies.
MARY.
Then of those happy thousands you are one,
Whom he,
with his celestial eloquence,
Like the immortal preacher of the mount,

Has turned and led to everlasting joy!
MORTIMER.

The duties of his office called him soon
To France,
and I was sent by him to Rheims,
Where, by the Jesuits' anxious labor,
priests
Are trained to preach our holy faith in England.
There,

'mongst the Scots, I found the noble Morgan,
And your true Lesley,
Ross's learned bishop,
Who pass in France their joyless days of exile.

I joined with heartfelt zeal these worthy men,
And fortified my
faith. As I one day
Roamed through the bishop's dwelling, I was
struck
With a fair female portrait; it was full
Of touching wond'rous
charms; with magic might
It moved my inmost soul, and there I stood

Speechless, and overmastered by my feelings.
"Well," cried the
bishop, "may you linger thus
In deep emotion near this lovely face!

For the most beautiful of womankind,
Is also matchless in calamity.

She is a prisoner for our holy faith,
And in your native land, alas!
she suffers."
[MARY is in great agitation. He pauses.
MARY.
Excellent man! All is not lost, indeed,
While such a friend
remains in my misfortunes!
MORTIMER.
Then he began, with moving eloquence,
To paint
the sufferings of your martyrdom;
He showed me then your lofty
pedigree,
And your descent from Tudor's royal house.
He proved to
me that you alone have right
To reign in England, not this upstart
queen,
The base-born fruit of an adult'rous bed,
Whom Henry's self
rejected as a bastard.
[He from my eyes removed delusion's mist,

And taught me to lament you as a victim,
To honor you as my true
queen, whom I,
Deceived, like thousands of my noble fellows,
Had
ever hated as my country's foe.]
I would not trust his evidence alone;

I questioned learned doctors; I consulted
The most authentic books
of heraldry;
And every man of knowledge whom I asked
Confirmed
to me your claim's validity.
And now I know that your undoubted
right
To England's throne has been your only wrong,
This realm is
justly yours by heritage,
In which you innocently pine as prisoner.
MARY.

Oh, this unhappy right!--'tis this alone
Which is the source
of all my sufferings.

MORTIMER.
Just at this time the tidings reached my ears
Of your
removal from old Talbot's charge,
And your committal to my uncle's
care.
It seemed to me that this disposal marked
The wond'rous,
outstretched hand of favoring heaven;
It seemed to be a loud decree
of fate,
That it had chosen me to rescue you.
My friends concur
with me; the cardinal
Bestows on me his counsel and his blessing,

And tutors me in the hard task of feigning.
The plan in haste digested,
I commenced
My journey homewards, and ten days ago
On
England's shores I landed. Oh, my queen.
[He pauses.
I saw then, not your picture, but yourself--
Oh, what a treasure do
these walls enclose!
No prison this, but the abode of gods,
More
splendid far than England's royal court.
Happy, thrice happy he,
whose envied lot
Permits to breathe the selfsame air with you!
It is
a prudent policy in her
To bury you so deep! All England's youth

Would rise at once in general mutiny,
And not a sword lie quiet in its
sheath:
Rebellion would uprear its giant head,
Through all this
peaceful isle, if Britons once
Beheld their captive queen.
MARY.
'Twere well with her,
If every Briton saw her with your eyes!
MORTIMER.
Were each, like me, a witness of your wrongs,
Your
meekness, and the noble fortitude
With which you suffer these
indignities--
Would you not then emerge from all these trials
Like a
true queen? Your prison's infamy,
Hath it despoiled your beauty of its
charms?
You are deprived of all that graces life,
Yet round you life
and light eternal beam.
Ne'er on this threshold can I set my foot,

That my poor heart with anguish is not torn,
Nor ravished with
delight at gazing on you.

Yet fearfully the fatal time draws near,

And danger hourly growing presses on.
I can delay no longer--can no

more
Conceal the dreadful news.
MARY.
My sentence then!
It is pronounced? Speak freely--I can bear it.
MORTIMER.
It is pronounced! The two-and-forty judges
Have
given the verdict, "guilty"; and the Houses
Of Lords and Commons,
with the citizens
Of London, eagerly and urgently
Demand the
execution of the sentence:--
The queen alone still craftily delays,

That she may be constrained to yield, but not
From feelings of
humanity or mercy.
MARY (collected).
Sir, I am not surprised, nor terrified.
I have
been long prepared for such a message.
Too well I know my judges.
After all
Their cruel treatment I can well conceive
They dare not
now restore my liberty.
I know their aim: they mean to keep me here

In everlasting bondage, and to bury,
In the sepulchral darkness of
my prison,
My vengeance with me, and my rightful claims.
MORTIMER.
Oh, no, my gracious queen;--they stop not there:

Oppression will not be content to do
Its work by halves:--as long as
e'en you live,
Distrust and fear will haunt the English queen.
No
dungeon can inter you deep enough;
Your death alone can make her
throne secure.
MARY.
Will she then dare, regardless of