ELIZABETH, Queen of England.
   MARY STUART, Queen of Scots, a Prisoner in England.
   ROBERT DUDLEY, Earl of Leicester.
   GEORGE TALBOT, Earl of Shrewsbury.
   WILLIAM CECIL, Lord Burleigh, Lord High Treasurer.
   EARL OF KENT.
   SIR WILLIAM DAVISON, Secretary of State.
   SIR AMIAS PAULET, Keeper of MARY.
   SIR EDWARD MORTIMER, his Nephew.
   COUNT L'AUBESPINE, the French Ambassador.
   O'KELLY, Mortimer's Friend.
   COUNT BELLIEVRE, Envoy Extraordinary from France.
   SIR DRUE DRURY, another Keeper of MARY.
   SIR ANDREW MELVIL, her House Steward.
   BURGOYNE, her Physician.
   HANNAH KENNEDY, her Nurse.
   MARGARET CURL, her Attendant.
   Sheriff of the County.
   Officer of the Guard.
   French and English Lords.
   Soldiers.
   Servants of State belonging to ELIZABETH.
   Servants and Female Attendants of the Queen of Scots.

      A common apartment in the Castle of Fotheringay.

      HANNAH KENNEDY, contending violently with PAULET, who is about
      to break open a closet; DRURY with an iron crown.

   KENNEDY.
   How now, sir? what fresh outrage have we here?
   Back from that cabinet!

   PAULET.
                Whence came the jewel?
   I know 'twas from an upper chamber thrown;
   And you would bribe the gardener with your trinkets.
   A curse on woman's wiles! In spite of all
   My strict precaution and my active search,
   Still treasures here, still costly gems concealed!
   And doubtless there are more where this lay hid.

      [Advancing towards the cabinet.

   KENNEDY.
   Intruder, back! here lie my lady's secrets.

   PAULET.
   Exactly what I seek.
               [Drawing forth papers.

   KENNEDY.
              Mere trifling papers;
   The amusements only of an idle pen,
   To cheat the dreary tedium of a dungeon.

   PAULET.
   In idle hours the evil mind is busy.

   KENNEDY.
   Those writings are in French.

   PAULET.
                   So much the worse!
   That tongue betokens England's enemy.

   KENNEDY.
   Sketches of letters to the Queen of England.

   PAULET.
   I'll be their bearer. Ha! what glitters here?

      [He touches a secret spring, and draws out jewels from
      a private drawer.

   A royal diadem enriched with stones,
   And studded with the fleur-de-lis of France.

      [He hands it to his assistant.

   Here, take it, Drury; lay it with the rest.

                    [Exit DRURY.

   [And ye have found the means to hide from us
   Such costly things, and screen them, until now,
   From our inquiring eyes?]

   KENNEDY.
                Oh, insolent
   And tyrant power, to which we must submit.

   PAULET.
   She can work ill as long as she hath treasures;
   For all things turn to weapons in her hands.

   KENNEDY (supplicating).
   Oh, sir! be merciful; deprive us not
   Of the last jewel that adorns our life!
   'Tis my poor lady's only joy to view
   This symbol of her former majesty;
   Your hands long since have robbed us of the rest.

   PAULET.
   'Tis in safe custody; in proper time
   'Twill be restored to you with scrupulous care.

   KENNEDY.
   Who that beholds these naked walls could say
   That majesty dwelt here? Where is the throne?
   Where the imperial canopy of state?
   Must she not set her tender foot, still used
   To softest treading, on the rugged ground?
   With common pewter, which the lowliest dame
   Would scorn, they furnish forth her homely table.

   PAULET.
   Thus did she treat her spouse at Stirling once;
   And pledged, the while, her paramour in gold.

   KENNEDY.
   Even the mirror's trifling aid withheld.

   PAULET.
   The contemplation of her own vain image
   Incites to hope, and prompts to daring deeds.

   KENNEDY.
   Books are denied her to divert her mind.

   PAULET.
   The Bible still is left to mend her heart.

   KENNEDY.
   Even of her very lute she is deprived!

   PAULET.
   Because she tuned it to her wanton airs.

   KENNEDY.
   Is this a fate for her, the gentle born,
   Who in her very cradle was a queen?
   Who, reared in Catherine's luxurious court,
   Enjoyed the fulness of each earthly pleasure?
   Was't not enough to rob her of her power,
   Must ye then envy her its paltry tinsel?
   A noble heart in time resigns itself
   To great calamities with fortitude;
   But yet it cuts one to the soul to part
   At once with all life's little outward trappings!

   PAULET.
   These are the things that turn the human heart
   To vanity, which should collect itself
   In penitence; for a lewd, vicious life,
   Want and abasement are the only penance.

   KENNEDY.
   If youthful blood has led her into error,
   With her own heart and God she must account:
   There is no judge in England over her.

   PAULET.
   She shall have judgment where she hath transgressed.

   KENNEDY.
   Her narrow bonds restrain her from transgression.

   PAULET.
   And yet she found the means to stretch her arm
   Into the world, from out these narrow bonds,
   And, with the torch of civil war, inflame
   This realm against our queen (whom God preserve).
   And arm assassin bands. Did she not rouse
   From out these walls the malefactor Parry,
   And Babington, to the detested crime
   Of regicide? And did this iron grate
   Prevent her from decoying to her toils
   The virtuous heart of Norfolk? Saw we not
   The first, best head in all this island fall
   A sacrifice for her upon the block?
   [The noble house of Howard fell with him.]
   And did this sad example terrify
   These mad adventurers, whose rival zeal
   Plunges for her into this deep abyss?
   The bloody scaffold bends beneath the weight
   Of her new daily victims; and we ne'er
   Shall see an end till she herself, of all
   The guiltiest, be offered up upon it.
   Oh! curses on the day when England took
   This Helen to its hospitable arms.

   KENNEDY.
   Did England then receive her hospitably?
   Oh, hapless queen! who, since that fatal day
   When first she set her foot within this realm,
   And, as a suppliant—a fugitive—
   Came to implore protection from her sister,
   Has been condemned, despite the law of nations,
   And royal privilege, to weep away
   The fairest years of youth in prison walls.
   And now, when she hath suffered everything
   Which in imprisonment is hard and bitter,
   Is like a felon summoned to the bar,
   Foully accused, and though herself a queen,
   Constrained to plead for honor and for life.

   PAULET.
   She came amongst us as a murderess,
   Chased by her very subjects from a throne
   Which she had oft by vilest deeds disgraced.
   Sworn against England's welfare came she hither,
   To call the times of bloody Mary back,
   Betray our church to Romish tyranny,
   And sell our dear-bought liberties to France.
   Say, why disdained she to subscribe the treaty
   Of Edinborough—to resign her claim
   To England's crown—and with one single word,
   Traced by her pen, throw wide her prison gates?
   No:—she had rather live in vile confinement,
   And see herself ill-treated, than renounce
   The empty honors of her barren title.
   Why acts she thus? Because she trusts to wiles,
   And treacherous arts of base conspiracy;
   And, hourly plotting schemes of mischief, hopes
   To conquer, from her prison, all this isle.

   KENNEDY.
   You mock us, sir, and edge your cruelty
   With words of bitter scorn:—that she should form
   Such projects; she, who's here immured alive,
   To whom no sound of comfort, not a voice
   Of friendship comes from her beloved home;
   Who hath so long no human face beheld,
   Save her stern gaoler's unrelenting brows;
   Till now, of late, in your uncourteous cousin
   She sees a second keeper, and beholds
   Fresh bolts and bars against her multiplied.

   PAULET.
   No iron-grate is proof against her wiles.
   How do I know these bars are not filed through?
   How that this floor, these walls, that seem so strong
   Without, may not be hollow from within,
   And let in felon treachery when I sleep?
   Accursed office, that's intrusted to me,
   To guard this cunning mother of all ill!
   Fear scares me from my sleep; and in the night
   I, like a troubled spirit, roam and try
   The strength of every bolt, and put to proof
   Each guard's fidelity:—I see, with fear,
   The dawning of each morn, which may confirm
   My apprehensions:—yet, thank God, there's hope
   That all my fears will soon be at an end;
   For rather would I at the gates of hell
   Stand sentinel, and guard the devilish host
   Of damned souls, than this deceitful queen.

   KENNEDY.
   Here comes the queen.

   PAULET.
               Christ's image in her hand.
   Pride, and all worldly lusts within her heart.

      The same. Enter MARY, veiled, a crucifix in her hand.

   KENNEDY (hastening toward her).
   O gracious queen! they tread us under foot;
   No end of tyranny and base oppression;
   Each coming day heaps fresh indignities,
   New sufferings on thy royal head.

   MARY.
                     Be calm—
   Say, what has happened?

   KENNEDY.
                See! thy cabinet
   Is forced—thy papers—and thy only treasure,
   Which with such pains we had secured, the last
   Poor remnant of thy bridal ornaments
   From France, is in his hands—naught now remains
   Of royal state—thou art indeed bereft!

   MARY.
   Compose yourself, my Hannah! and believe me,
   'Tis not these baubles that can make a queen—
   Basely indeed they may behave to us,
   But they cannot debase us. I have learned
   To use myself to many a change in England;
   I can support this too. Sir, you have taken
   By force what I this very day designed
   To have delivered to you. There's a letter
   Amongst these papers for my royal sister
   Of England. Pledge me, sir, your word of honor,
   To give it to her majesty's own hands,
   And not to the deceitful care of Burleigh.

   PAULET.
   I shall consider what is best to do.

   MARY.
   Sir, you shall know its import. In this letter
   I beg a favor, a great favor of her,—
   That she herself will give me audience,—she
   Whom I have never seen. I have been summoned
   Before a court of men, whom I can ne'er
   Acknowledge as my peers—of men to whom
   My heart denies its confidence. The queen
   Is of my family, my rank, my sex;
   To her alone—a sister, queen, and woman—
   Can I unfold my heart.

   PAULET.
               Too oft, my lady,
   Have you intrusted both your fate and honor
   To men less worthy your esteem than these.

   MARY.
   I, in the letter, beg another favor,
   And surely naught but inhumanity
   Can here reject my prayer. These many years
   Have I, in prison, missed the church's comfort,
   The blessings of the sacraments—and she
   Who robs me of my freedom and my crown,
   Who seeks my very life, can never wish
   To shut the gates of heaven upon my soul.

   PAULET.
   Whene'er you wish, the dean shall wait upon you.

   MARY (interrupting him sharply).
   Talk to me not of deans. I ask the aid
   Of one of my own church—a Catholic priest.

   PAULET.
   [That is against the published laws of England.

   MARY.
   The laws of England are no rule for me.
   I am not England's subject; I have ne'er
   Consented to its laws, and will not bow
   Before their cruel and despotic sway.
   If 'tis your will, to the unheard-of rigor
   Which I have borne, to add this new oppression,
   I must submit to what your power ordains;
   Yet will I raise my voice in loud complaints.]
   I also wish a public notary,
   And secretaries, to prepare my will—
   My sorrows and my prison's wretchedness
   Prey on my life—my days, I fear, are numbered—
   I feel that I am near the gates of death.

   PAULET.
   These serious contemplations well become you.

   MARY.
   And know I then that some too ready hand
   May not abridge this tedious work of sorrow?
   I would indite my will and make disposal
   Of what belongs to me.

   PAULET.
               This liberty
   May be allowed to you, for England's queen
   Will not enrich herself by plundering you.

   MARY.
   I have been parted from my faithful women,
   And from my servants; tell me, where are they?
   What is their fate? I can indeed dispense
   At present with their service, but my heart
   Will feel rejoiced to know these faithful ones
   Are not exposed to suffering and to want!

   PAULET.
   Your servants have been cared for; [and again
   You shall behold whate'er is taken from you
   And all shall be restored in proper season.]

                    [Going.

   MARY.
   And will you leave my presence thus again,
   And not relieve my fearful, anxious heart
   From the fell torments of uncertainty?
   Thanks to the vigilance of your hateful spies,
   I am divided from the world; no voice
   Can reach me through these prison-walls; my fate
   Lies in the hands of those who wish my ruin.
   A month of dread suspense is passed already
   Since when the forty high commissioners
   Surprised me in this castle, and erected,
   With most unseemly haste, their dread tribunal;
   They forced me, stunned, amazed, and unprepared,
   Without an advocate, from memory,
   Before their unexampled court, to answer
   Their weighty charges, artfully arranged.
   They came like ghosts,—like ghosts they disappeared,
   And since that day all mouths are closed to me.
   In vain I seek to construe from your looks
   Which hath prevailed—my cause's innocence
   And my friends' zeal—or my foes' cursed counsel.
   Oh, break this silence! let me know the worst;
   What have I still to fear, and what to hope.

   PAULET.
   Close your accounts with heaven.

   MARY.
                    From heaven I hope
   For mercy, sir; and from my earthly judges
   I hope, and still expect, the strictest justice.

   PAULET.
   Justice, depend upon it, will be done you.

   MARY.
   Is the suit ended, sir?

   PAULET.
                I cannot tell.

   MARY.
   Am I condemned?

   PAULET.
            I cannot answer, lady.

   MARY.
   [Sir, a good work fears not the light of day.

   PAULET.
   The day will shine upon it, doubt it not.]

   MARY.
   Despatch is here the fashion. Is it meant
   The murderer shall surprise me, like the judges?

   PAULET.
   Still entertain that thought and he will find you
   Better prepared to meet your fate than they did.

   MARY (after a pause).
   Sir, nothing can surprise me which a court
   Inspired by Burleigh's hate and Hatton's zeal,
   Howe'er unjust, may venture to pronounce:
   But I have yet to learn how far the queen
   Will dare in execution of the sentence.

   PAULET.
   The sovereigns of England have no fear
   But for their conscience and their parliament.
   What justice hath decreed her fearless hand
   Will execute before the assembled world.

      The same. MORTIMER enters, and without paying attention
      to the QUEEN, addresses PAULET.

   MORTIMER.
   Uncle, you're sought for.

      [He retires in the same manner. The QUEEN remarks it, and
      turns towards PAULET, who is about to follow him.

   MARY.
                 Sir, one favor more
   If you have aught to say to me—from you
   I can bear much—I reverence your gray hairs;
   But cannot bear that young man's insolence;
   Spare me in future his unmannered rudeness.

   PAULET.
   I prize him most for that which makes you hate him
   He is not, truly, one of those poor fools
   Who melt before a woman's treacherous tears.
   He has seen much—has been to Rheims and Paris,
   And brings us back his true old English heart.
   Lady, your cunning arts are lost on him.

                      [Exit.

      MARY, KENNEDY.

   KENNEDY.
   And dare the ruffian venture to your face
   Such language! Oh, 'tis hard—'tis past endurance.

   MARY (lost in reflection).
   In the fair moments of our former splendor
   We lent to flatterers a too willing ear;—
   It is but just, good Hannah, we should now
   Be forced to hear the bitter voice of censure.

   KENNEDY.
   So downcast, so depressed, my dearest lady!
   You, who before so gay, so full of hope,
   Were used to comfort me in my distress;
   More gracious were the task to check your mirth
   Than chide your heavy sadness.

   MARY.
                   Well I know him—
   It is the bleeding Darnley's royal shade,
   Rising in anger from his darksome grave
   And never will he make his peace with me
   Until the measures of my woes be full.

   KENNEDY.
   What thoughts are these—

   MARY.
                Thou may'st forget it, Hannah;
   But I've a faithful memory—'tis this day
   Another wretched anniversary
   Of that regretted, that unhappy deed—
   Which I must celebrate with fast and penance.

   KENNEDY.
   Dismiss at length in peace this evil spirit.
   The penitence of many a heavy year,
   Of many a suffering, has atoned the deed;
   The church, which holds the key of absolution,
   Pardons the crime, and heaven itself's appeased.

   MARY.
   This long-atoned crime arises fresh
   And bleeding from its lightly-covered grave;
   My husband's restless spirit seeks revenge;
   No sacred bell can exorcise, no host
   In priestly hands dismiss it to his tomb.

   KENNEDY.
   You did not murder him; 'twas done by others.

   MARY.
   But it was known to me; I suffered it,
   And lured him with my smiles to death's embrace.

   KENNEDY.
   Your youth extenuates your guilt. You were
   Of tender years.

   MARY.
            So tender, yet I drew
   This heavy guilt upon my youthful head.

   KENNEDY.
   You were provoked by direst injuries,
   And by the rude presumption of the man,
   Whom out of darkness, like the hand of heaven,
   Your love drew forth, and raised above all others.
   Whom through your bridal chamber you conducted
   Up to your throne, and with your lovely self,
   And your hereditary crown, distinguished
   [Your work was his existence, and your grace
   Bedewed him like the gentle rains of heaven.]
   Could he forget that his so splendid lot
   Was the creation of your generous love?
   Yet did he, worthless as he was, forget it.
   With base suspicions, and with brutal manners,
   He wearied your affections, and became
   An object to you of deserved disgust:
   The illusion, which till now had overcast
   Your judgment, vanished; angrily you fled
   His foul embrace, and gave him up to scorn.
   And did he seek again to win your love?
   Your favor? Did he e'er implore your pardon?
   Or fall in deep repentance at your feet?
   No; the base wretch defied you; he, who was
   Your bounty's creature, wished to play your king,
   [And strove, through fear, to force your inclination.]
   Before your eyes he had your favorite singer,
   Poor Rizzio, murdered; you did but avenge
   With blood the bloody deed——

   MARY.
                  And bloodily,
   I fear, too soon 'twill be avenged on me:
   You seek to comfort me, and you condemn me.

   KENNEDY.
   You were, when you consented to this deed,
   No more yourself; belonged not to yourself;
   The madness of a frantic love possessed you,
   And bound you to a terrible seducer,
   The wretched Bothwell. That despotic man
   Ruled you with shameful, overbearing will,
   And with his philters and his hellish arts
   Inflamed your passions.

   MARY.
                All the arts he used
   Were man's superior strength and woman's weakness.

   KENNEDY.
   No, no, I say. The most pernicious spirits
   Of hell he must have summoned to his aid,
   To cast this mist before your waking senses.
   Your ear no more was open to the voice
   Of friendly warning, and your eyes were shut
   To decency; soft female bashfulness
   Deserted you; those cheeks, which were before
   The seat of virtuous, blushing modesty,
   Glowed with the flames of unrestrained desire.
   You cast away the veil of secrecy,
   And the flagitious daring of the man
   O'ercame your natural coyness: you exposed
   Your shame, unblushingly, to public gaze:
   You let the murderer, whom the people followed
   With curses, through the streets of Edinburgh,
   Before you bear the royal sword of Scotland
   In triumph. You begirt your parliament
   With armed bands; and by this shameless farce,
   There, in the very temple of great justice,
   You forced the judges of the land to clear
   The murderer of his guilt. You went still further—
   O God!

   MARY.
       Conclude—nay, pause not—say for this
   I gave my hand in marriage at the altar.

   KENNEDY.
   O let an everlasting silence veil
   That dreadful deed: the heart revolts at it.
   A crime to stain the darkest criminal!
   Yet you are no such lost one, that I know.
   I nursed your youth myself—your heart is framed
   For tender softness: 'tis alive to shame,
   And all your fault is thoughtless levity.
   Yes, I repeat it, there are evil spirits,
   Who sudden fix in man's unguarded breast
   Their fatal residence, and there delight
   To act their dev'lish deeds; then hurry back
   Unto their native hell, and leave behind
   Remorse and horror in the poisoned bosom.
   Since this misdeed, which blackens thus your life,
   You have done nothing ill; your conduct has
   Been pure; myself can witness your amendment.
   Take courage, then; with your own heart make peace.
   Whatever cause you have for penitence,
   You are not guilty here. Nor England's queen,
   Nor England's parliament can be your judge.
   Here might oppresses you: you may present
   Yourself before this self-created court
   With all the fortitude of innocence.

   MARY.
   I hear a step.

   KENNEDY.
           It is the nephew—In.

      The same. Enter MORTIMER, approaching cautiously.

   MORTIMER (to KENNEDY).
   Step to the door, and keep a careful watch,
   I have important business with the queen.

   MARY (with dignity).
   I charge thee, Hannah, go not hence—remain.

   MORTIMER.
   Fear not, my gracious lady—learn to know me.

      [He gives her a card.

   MARY (She examines it, and starts back astonished).
   Heavens! What is this?

   MORTIMER (to KENNEDY).
                Retire, good Kennedy;
   See that my uncle comes not unawares.

   MARY (to KENNEDY, who hesitates, and looks at the QUEEN inquiringly).
   Go in; do as he bids you.

      [KENNEDY retires with signs of wonder.

      MARY, MORTIMER.

   MARY.
                 From my uncle
   In France—the worthy Cardinal of Lorrain?

      [She reads.

   "Confide in Mortimer, who brings you this;
   You have no truer, firmer friend in England."

      [Looking at him with astonishment.

   Can I believe it? Is there no delusion
   To cheat my senses? Do I find a friend
   So near, when I conceived myself abandoned
   By the whole world? And find that friend in you,
   The nephew of my gaoler, whom I thought
   My most inveterate enemy?

   MORTIMER (kneeling).
                 Oh, pardon,
   My gracious liege, for the detested mask,
   Which it has cost me pain enough to wear;
   Yet through such means alone have I the power
   To see you, and to bring you help and rescue.

   MARY.
   Arise, sir; you astonish me; I cannot
   So suddenly emerge from the abyss
   Of wretchedness to hope: let me conceive
   This happiness, that I may credit it.

   MORTIMER.
   Our time is brief: each moment I expect
   My uncle, whom a hated man attends;
   Hear, then, before his terrible commission
   Surprises you, how heaven prepares your rescue.

   MARY.
   You come in token of its wondrous power.

   MORTIMER.
   Allow me of myself to speak.

   MARY.
                  Say on.

   MORTIMER.
   I scarce, my liege, had numbered twenty years,
   Trained in the path of strictest discipline
   And nursed in deadliest hate to papacy,
   When led by irresistible desire
   For foreign travel, I resolved to leave
   My country and its puritanic faith
   Far, far behind me: soon with rapid speed
   I flew through France, and bent my eager course
   On to the plains of far-famed Italy.
   'Twas then the time of the great jubilee:
   And crowds of palmers filled the public roads;
   Each image was adorned with garlands; 'twas
   As if all human-kind were wandering forth
   In pilgrimage towards the heavenly kingdom.
   The tide of the believing multitude
   Bore me too onward, with resistless force,
   Into the streets of Rome. What was my wonder,
   As the magnificence of stately columns
   Rushed on my sight! the vast triumphal arches,
   The Colosseum's grandeur, with amazement
   Struck my admiring senses; the sublime
   Creative spirit held my soul a prisoner
   In the fair world of wonders it had framed.
   I ne'er had felt the power of art till now.
   The church that reared me hates the charms of sense;
   It tolerates no image, it adores
   But the unseen, the incorporeal word.
   What were my feelings, then, as I approached
   The threshold of the churches, and within,
   Heard heavenly music floating in the air:
   While from the walls and high-wrought roofs there streamed
   Crowds of celestial forms in endless train—
   When the Most High, Most Glorious pervaded
   My captivated sense in real presence!
   And when I saw the great and godlike visions,
   The Salutation, the Nativity,
   The Holy Mother, and the Trinity's
   Descent, the luminous transfiguration
   And last the holy pontiff, clad in all
   The glory of his office, bless the people!
   Oh! what is all the pomp of gold and jewels
   With which the kings of earth adorn themselves!
   He is alone surrounded by the Godhead;
   His mansion is in truth an heavenly kingdom,
   For not of earthly moulding are these forms!

   MARY.
   O spare me, sir! No further. Spread no more
   Life's verdant carpet out before my eyes,
   Remember I am wretched, and a prisoner.

   MORTIMER.
   I was a prisoner, too, my queen; but swift
   My prison-gates flew open, when at once
   My spirit felt its liberty, and hailed
   The smiling dawn of life. I learned to burst
   Each narrow prejudice of education,
   To crown my brow with never-fading wreaths,
   And mix my joy with the rejoicing crowd.
   Full many noble Scots, who saw my zeal,
   Encouraged me, and with the gallant French
   They kindly led me to your princely uncle,
   The Cardinal of Guise. Oh, what a man!
   How firm, how clear, how manly, and how great!
   Born to control the human mind at will!
   The very model of a royal priest;
   A ruler of the church without an equal!

   MARY.
   You've seen him then,—the much loved, honored man,
   Who was the guardian of my tender years!
   Oh, speak of him! Does he remember me?
   Does fortune favor him? And prospers still
   His life? And does he still majestic stand,
   A very rock and pillar of the church?

   MORTIMER.
   The holy man descended from his height,
   And deigned to teach me the important creed
   Of the true church, and dissipate my doubts.
   He showed me how the glimmering light of reason
   Serves but to lead us to eternal error:
   That what the heart is called on to believe
   The eye must see: that he who rules the church
   Must needs be visible; and that the spirit
   Of truth inspired the councils of the fathers.
   How vanished then the fond imaginings
   And weak conceptions of my childish soul
   Before his conquering judgment, and the soft
   Persuasion 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 the shame,
   Lay my crowned head upon the fatal block?

   MORTIMER.
   She will most surely dare it, doubt it not.

   MARY.
   And can she thus roll in the very dust
   Her own, and every monarch's majesty?

   MORTIMER.
   She thinks on nothing now but present danger,
   Nor looks to that which is so far removed.

   MARY.
   And fears she not the dread revenge of France?

   MORTIMER.
   With France she makes an everlasting peace;
   And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.

   MARY.
   Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?

   MORTIMER.
   She fears not a collected world in arms?
   If with her people she remains at peace.

   MARY.
   Were this a spectacle for British eyes?

   MORTIMER.
   This land, my queen, has, in these latter days,
   Seen many a royal woman from the throne
   Descend and mount the scaffold:—her own mother
   And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path;
   And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?

   MARY (after a pause).
   No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you;
   'Tis but the honest care of your true heart,
   Which conjures up these empty apprehensions.
   It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear:
   There are so many still and secret means
   By which her majesty of England may
   Set all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ere
   An executioner is found for me,
   Assassins will be hired to do their work.
   'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer:
   I never lift the goblet to my lips
   Without an inward shuddering, lest the draught
   May have been mingled by my sister's love.

   MORTIMER.
   No:—neither open or disguised murder
   Shall e'er prevail against you:—fear no more;
   All is prepared;—twelve nobles of the land
   Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day,
   Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you,
   With dauntless arm, from this captivity.
   Count Aubespine, the French ambassador,
   Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance:
   'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.

   NARY.
   You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy!
   An evil boding penetrates my heart.
   Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared
   By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads,
   Set up as warnings upon London's bridge?
   Nor by the ruin of those many victims
   Who have, in such attempts, found certain death,
   And only made my chains the heavier?
   Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth!
   Fly, if there yet be time for you, before
   That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes,
   And mix his traitors in your secret plots.
   Fly hence:—as yet, success hath never smiled
   On Mary Stuart's champions.