Mary Stuart: A Tragedy

      LEICESTER (bursts open the door with violence,
      and enters with an imperious air).

   LEICESTER.
   Fain would I see the shameless man who dares
   Forbid me the apartments of my queen!

   ELIZABETH (avoiding his sight).

   Audacious slave!

   LEICESTER.
            To turn me from the door!

   If for a Burleigh she be visible,
   She must be so to me!

   BURLEIGH.
               My lord, you are
   Too bold, without permission to intrude.

   LEICESTER.
   My lord, you are too arrogant, to take
   The lead in these apartments. What! Permission!
   I know of none who stands so high at court
   As to permit my doings, or refuse them.

      [Humbly approaching ELIZABETH.

   'Tis from my sovereign's lips alone that I——

   ELIZABETH (without looking at him).
   Out of my sight, deceitful, worthless traitor!

   LEICESTER.
   'Tis not my gracious queen I hear, but Burleigh,
   My enemy, in these ungentle words.
   To my imperial mistress I appeal;
   Thou hast lent him thine ear; I ask the like.

   ELIZABETH.
   Speak, shameless wretch! Increase your crime—deny it.

   LEICESTER.
   Dismiss this troublesome intruder first.
   Withdraw, my lord; it is not of your office
   To play the third man here: between the queen
   And me there is no need of witnesses.
   Retire——

   ELIZABETH (to BURLEIGH).
        Remain, my lord; 'tis my command.

   LEICESTER.
   What has a third to do 'twixt thee and me?
   I have to clear myself before my queen,
   My worshipped queen; I will maintain the rights
   Which thou hast given me; these rights are sacred,
   And I insist upon it, that my lord
   Retire.

   ELIZABETH.
        This haughty tone befits you well.

   LEICESTER.
   It well befits me; am not I the man,
   The happy man, to whom thy gracious favor
   Has given the highest station? this exalts me
   Above this Burleigh, and above them all.
   Thy heart imparted me this rank, and what
   Thy favor gave, by heavens I will maintain
   At my life's hazard. Let him go, it needs
   Two moments only to exculpate me.

   ELIZABETH.
   Think not, with cunning words, to hide the truth.

   LEICESTER.
   That fear from him, so voluble of speech:
   But what I say is to the heart addressed;
   And I will justify what I have dared
   To do, confiding in thy generous favor,
   Before thy heart alone. I recognize
   No other jurisdiction.

   ELIZABETH.
               Base deceiver
   'Tis this, e'en this, which above all condemns you.
   My lord, produce the letter.

      [To BURLEIGH.

   BURLEIGH.
                   Here it is.

   LEICESTER (running over the letter without losing his presence of mind).
   'Tis Mary Stuart's hand——

   ELIZABETH.
                 Read and be dumb!

   LEICESTER (having read it quietly).
   Appearance is against me, yet I hope
   I shall not by appearances be judged.

   ELIZABETH.
   Can you deny your secret correspondence
   With Mary?—that she sent and you received
   Her picture, that you gave her hopes of rescue?

   LEICESTER.
   It were an easy matter, if I felt
   That I were guilty of a crime, to challenge
   The testimony of my enemy:
   Yet bold is my good conscience. I confess
   That she hath said the truth.

   ELIZABETH.
                   Well then, thou wretch!

   BURLEIGH.
   His own words sentence him——

   ELIZABETH.
                  Out of my sight!
   Away! Conduct the traitor to the Tower!

   LEICESTER.
   I am no traitor; it was wrong, I own,
   To make a secret of this step to thee;
   Yet pure was my intention, it was done
   To search into her plots and to confound them.

   ELIZABETH.
   Vain subterfuge!

   BURLEIGH.
            And do you think, my lord——

   LEICESTER.
   I've played a dangerous game, I know it well,
   And none but Leicester dare be bold enough
   To risk it at this court. The world must know
   How I detest this Stuart, and the rank
   Which here I hold; my monarch's confidence,
   With which she honors me, must sure suffice
   To overturn all doubt of my intentions.
   Well may the man thy favor above all
   Distinguishes pursue a daring course
   To do his duty!

   BURLEIGH.
            If the course was good,
   Wherefore conceal it?

   LEICESTER.
               You are used, my lord,
   To prate before you act; the very chime
   Of your own deeds. This is your manner, lord;
   But mine is first to act, and then to speak.

   BURLEIGH.
   Yes, now you speak because you must.

   LEICESTER (measuring him proudly and disdainfully with his eyes).
                      And you
   Boast of a wonderful, a mighty action,
   That you have saved the queen, have snatched away
   The mask from treachery; all is known to you;
   You think, forsooth, that nothing can escape
   Your penetrating eyes. Poor, idle boaster!
   In spite of all your cunning, Mary Stuart
   Was free to-day, had I not hindered it.

   BURLEIGH.
                        How? You?

   LEICESTER.
   Yes, I, my lord; the queen confided
   In Mortimer; she opened to the youth
   Her inmost soul! Yes, she went further still;
   She gave him, too, a secret, bloody charge,
   Which Paulet had before refused with horror.
   Say, is it so, or not?

      [The QUEEN and BURLEIGH look at one another with astonishment.

   BURLEIGH.
               Whence know ye this?

   LEICESTER.
   Nay, is it not a fact? Now answer me.
   And where, my lord, where were your thousand eyes,
   Not to discover Mortimer was false?
   That he, the Guise's tool, and Mary's creature,
   A raging papist, daring fanatic,
   Was come to free the Stuart, and to murder
   The Queen of England!

   ELIZABETH (with the utmost astonishment).
               How! This Mortimer!

   LEICESTER.
   'Twas he through whom our correspondence passed.
   This plot it was which introduced me to him.
   This very day she was to have been torn
   From her confinement; he, this very moment,
   Disclosed his plan to me: I took him prisoner,
   And gave him to the guard, when in despair
   To see his work o'erturned, himself unmasked,
   He slew himself!

   ELIZABETH.
            Oh, I indeed have been
   Deceived beyond example, Mortimer!

   BURLEIGH.
   This happened then but now? Since last we parted?

   LEICESTER.
   For my own sake, I must lament the deed;
   That he was thus cut off. His testimony,
   Were he alive, had fully cleared my fame,
   And freed me from suspicion; 'twas for this
   That I surrendered him to open justice.
   I thought to choose the most impartial course
   To verify and fix my innocence
   Before the world.

   BURLEIGH.
             He killed himself, you say
   Is't so? Or did you kill him?

   LEICESTER.
                   Vile suspicion!
   Hear but the guard who seized him.
      [He goes to the door, and calls.
                     Ho! who waits?
      [Enter the officer of the guard.
   Sir, tell the queen how Mortimer expired.

   OFFICER.
   I was on duty in the palace porch,
   When suddenly my lord threw wide the door,
   And ordered me to take the knight in charge,
   Denouncing him a traitor: upon this
   He grew enraged, and with most bitter curses
   Against our sovereign and our holy faith,
   He drew a dagger, and before the guards
   Could hinder his intention, plunged the steel
   Into his heart, and fell a lifeless corpse.

   LEICESTER.
   'Tis well; you may withdraw. Her majesty
   Has heard enough.

      [The officer withdraws.

   ELIZABETH.

             Oh, what a deep abyss
   Of monstrous deeds?

   LEICESTER.
              Who was it, then, my queen,
   Who saved you? Was it Burleigh? Did he know
   The dangers which surrounded you? Did he
   Avert them from your head? Your faithful Leicester
   Was your good angel.

   BURLEIGH.
              This same Mortimer
   Died most conveniently for you, my lord.

   ELIZABETH.
   What I should say I know not. I believe you,
   And I believe you not. I think you guilty,
   And yet I think you not. A curse on her
   Who caused me all this anguish.

   LEICESTER.
                    She must die;
   I now myself consent unto her death.
   I formerly advised you to suspend
   The sentence, till some arm should rise anew
   On her behalf; the case has happened now,
   And I demand her instant execution.

   BURLEIGH.
   You give this counsel? You?

   LEICESTER.
                  Howe'er it wound
   My feelings to be forced to this extreme,
   Yet now I see most clearly, now I feel
   That the queen's welfare asks this bloody victim.
   'Tis my proposal, therefore, that the writ
   Be drawn at once to fix the execution.

   BURLEIGH (to the QUEEN).
   Since, then, his lordship shows such earnest zeal,
   Such loyalty, 'twere well were he appointed
   To see the execution of the sentence.

   LEICESTER.
   Who? I?

   BURLEIGH.
        Yes, you; you surely ne'er could find
   A better means to shake off the suspicion
   Which rests upon you still, than to command
   Her, whom 'tis said you love, to be beheaded.

   ELIZABETH (looking steadfastly at LEICESTER).
   My lord advises well. So be it, then.

   LEICESTER.
   It were but fit that my exalted rank
   Should free me from so mournful a commission,
   Which would indeed, in every sense, become
   A Burleigh better than the Earl of Leicester.
   The man who stands so near the royal person
   Should have no knowledge of such fatal scenes:
   But yet to prove my zeal, to satisfy
   My queen, I waive my charge's privilege,
   And take upon myself this hateful duty.

   ELIZABETH.
   Lord Burleigh shall partake this duty with you.

      [To BURLEIGH.

   So be the warrant instantly prepared.

      [BURLEIGH withdraws; a tumult heard without.

      The QUEEN, the EARL OF KENT.

   ELIZABETH.
   How now, my Lord of Kent? What uproar's this
   I hear without?

   KENT.
            My queen, it is thy people,
   Who, round the palace ranged, impatiently
   Demand to see their sovereign.

   ELIZABETH.
                    What's their wish?

   KENT.
   A panic terror has already spread
   Through London, that thy life has been attempted;
   That murderers commissioned from the pope
   Beset thee; that the Catholics have sworn
   To rescue from her prison Mary Stuart,
   And to proclaim her queen. Thy loyal people
   Believe it, and are mad; her head alone
   Can quiet them; this day must be her last.

   ELIZABETH.
   How! Will they force me, then?

   KENT.
                    They are resolved——

      Enter BURLEIGH and DAVISON, with a paper.

   ELIZABETH.
   Well, Davison?

   DAVISON (approaches earnestly).
           Your orders are obeyed,
   My queen——

   ELIZABETH.
         What orders, sir?

      [As she is about to take the paper, she shudders, and starts back.

                   Oh, God!

   BURLEIGH.
                        Obey
   Thy people's voice; it is the voice of God.

   ELIZABETH (irresolute, as if in contest with herself)
   Oh, my good lord, who will assure me now
   That what I hear is my whole people's voice,
   The voice of all the world! Ah! much I fear,
   That, if I now should listen to the wish
   Of the wild multitude, a different voice
   Might soon be heard;—and that the very men,
   Who now by force oblige me to this step,
   May, when 'tis taken, heavily condemn me!

      Enter the EARL OF SHREWSBURY (who enters with great emotion).

   SHREWSBURY.
   Hold fast, my queen, they wish to hurry thee;

      [Seeing DAVISON with the paper.

   Be firm—or is it then decided?—is it
   Indeed decided? I behold a paper
   Of ominous appearance in his hand;
   Let it not at this moment meet thy eyes,
   My queen!——

   ELIZABETH.
         Good Shrewsbury! I am constrained——

   SHREWSBURY.
   Who can constrain thee? Thou art Queen of England,
   Here must thy majesty assert its rights:
   Command those savage voices to be silent,
   Who take upon themselves to put constraint
   Upon thy royal will, to rule thy judgment.
   Fear only, blind conjecture, moves thy people;
   Thou art thyself beside thyself; thy wrath
   Is grievously provoked: thou art but mortal,
   And canst not thus ascend the judgment seat.

   BURLEIGH.
   Judgment has long been past. It is not now
   The time to speak but execute the sentence.

   KENT (who upon SHREWSBURY'S entry had retired, comes back).
   The tumult gains apace; there are no means
   To moderate the people.

   ELIZABETH (to SHREWSBURY).
                See, my lord,
   How they press on.

   SHREWSBURY.
             I only ask a respite;
   A single word traced by thy hand decides
   The peace, the happiness of all thy life!
   Thou hast for years considered, let not then
   A moment ruled by passion hurry thee—
   But a short respite—recollect thyself!
   Wait for a moment of tranquillity.

   BURLEIGH (violently).
   Wait for it—pause—delay—till flames of fire
   Consume the realm; until the fifth attempt
   Of murder be successful! God, indeed,
   Hath thrice delivered thee; thy late escape
   Was marvellous, and to expect again
   A miracle would be to tempt thy God!

   SHREWSBURY.
   That God, whose potent hand hath thrice preserved thee,
   Who lent my aged feeble arm its strength
   To overcome the madman:—he deserves
   Thy confidence. I will not raise the voice
   Of justice now, for now is not the time;
   Thou canst not hear it in this storm of passion.
   Yet listen but to this! Thou tremblest now
   Before this living Mary—tremble rather
   Before the murdered, the beheaded Mary.
   She will arise, and quit her grave, will range
   A fiend of discord, an avenging ghost,
   Around thy realm, and turn thy people's hearts
   From their allegiance. For as yet the Britons
   Hate her, because they fear her; but most surely
   Will they avenge her when she is no more.
   They will no more behold the enemy
   Of their belief, they will but see in her
   The much-lamented issue of their kings
   A sacrifice to jealousy and hate.
   Then quickly shalt thou see the sudden change
   When thou hast done the bloody deed; then go
   Through London, seek thy people, which till now
   Around thee swarmed delighted; thou shalt see
   Another England, and another people;
   For then no more the godlike dignity
   Of justice, which subdued thy subjects' hearts,
   Will beam around thee. Fear, the dread ally
   Of tyranny, will shuddering march before thee,
   And make a wilderness in every street—
   The last, extremest crime thou hast committed.
   What head is safe, if the anointed fall?

   ELIZABETH.
   Ah! Shrewsbury, you saved my life, you turned
   The murderous steel aside; why let you not
   The dagger take its course? then all these broils
   Would have been ended; then, released from doubt,
   And free from blame, I should be now at rest
   In my still, peaceful grave. In very sooth
   I'm weary of my life, and of my crown.
   If Heaven decree that one of us two queens
   Must perish, to secure the other's life—
   And sure it must be so—why should not I
   Be she who yields? My people must decide;
   I give them back the sovereignty they gave.
   God is my witness that I have not lived
   For my own sake, but for my people's welfare.
   If they expect from this false, fawning Stuart,
   The younger sovereign, more happy days,
   I will descend with pleasure from the throne,
   Again repair to Woodstock's quiet bowers,
   Where once I spent my unambitious youth;
   Where far removed from all the vanities
   Of earthly power, I found within myself
   True majesty. I am not made to rule—
   A ruler should be made of sterner stuff:
   My heart is soft and tender. I have governed
   These many years this kingdom happily,
   But then I only needed to make happy:
   Now, comes my first important regal duty,
   And now I feel how weak a thing I am.

   BURLEIGH.
   Now by mine honor, when I hear my queen,
   My royal liege, speak such unroyal words,
   I should betray my office, should betray
   My country, were I longer to be silent.
   You say you love your people 'bove yourself,
   Now prove it. Choose not peace for your own heart,
   And leave your kingdom to the storms of discord.
   Think on the church. Shall, with this papist queen
   The ancient superstition be renewed?
   The monk resume his sway, the Roman legate
   In pomp march hither; lock our churches up,
   Dethrone our monarchs? I demand of you
   The souls of all your subjects—as you now
   Shall act, they all are saved, or all are lost!
   Here is no time for mercy;—to promote
   Your people's welfare is your highest duty.
   If Shrewsbury has saved your life, then I
   Will save both you and England—that is more!

   ELIZABETH.
   I would be left alone. No consolation,
   No counsel can be drawn from human aid
   In this conjecture:—I will lay my doubts
   Before the Judge of all:—I am resolved
   To act as He shall teach. Withdraw, my lords.

      [To DAVISON, who lays the paper on the table.

   You, sir, remain in waiting—close at hand.

      [The lords withdraw, SHREWSBURY alone stands
      for a few moments before the QUEEN, regards her
      significantly, then withdraws slowly, and with
      an expression of the deepest anguish.

      ELIZABETH alone.

   Oh! servitude of popularity!
   Disgraceful slavery! How weary am I
   Of flattering this idol, which my soul
   Despises in its inmost depth! Oh! when
   Shall I once more be free upon this throne?
   I must respect the people's voice, and strive
   To win the favor of the multitude,
   And please the fancies of a mob, whom naught
   But jugglers' tricks delight. O call not him
   A king who needs must please the world: 'tis he
   Alone, who in his actions does not heed
   The fickle approbation of mankind.
   Have I then practised justice, all my life
   Shunned each despotic deed; have I done this
   Only to bind my hands against this first,
   This necessary act of violence?
   My own example now condemns myself!
   Had I but been a tyrant, like my sister,
   My predecessor, I could fearless then
   Have shed this royal blood:—but am I now
   Just by my own free choice? No—I was forced
   By stern necessity to use this virtue;
   Necessity, which binds e'en monarch's wills.
   Surrounded by my foes, my people's love
   Alone supports me on my envied throne.
   All Europe's powers confederate to destroy me;
   The pope's inveterate decree declares me
   Accursed and excommunicated. France
   Betrays me with a kiss, and Spain prepares
   At sea a fierce exterminating war;
   Thus stand I, in contention with the world,
   A poor defenceless woman: I must seek
   To veil the spot in my imperial birth,
   By which my father cast disgrace upon me:
   In vain with princely virtues would I hide it;
   The envious hatred of my enemies
   Uncovers it, and places Mary Stuart,
   A threatening fiend, before me evermore!

      [Walking up and down, with quick and agitated steps.

   Oh, no! this fear must end. Her head must fall!
   I will have peace. She is the very fury
   Of my existence; a tormenting demon,
   Which destiny has fastened on my soul.
   Wherever I had planted me a comfort,
   A flattering hope, my way was ever crossed
   By this infernal viper! She has torn
   My favorite, and my destined bridegroom from me.
   The hated name of every ill I feel
   Is Mary Stuart—were but she no more
   On earth I should be free as mountain air.

      [Standing still.

   With what disdain did she look down on me,
   As if her eye should blast me like the lightning!
   Poor feeble wretch! I bear far other arms,
   Their touch is mortal, and thou art no more.

      [Advancing to the table hastily, and taking the pen.

   I am a bastard, am I? Hapless wretch,
   I am but so the while thou liv'st and breath'st.
   Thy death will make my birth legitimate.
   The moment I destroy thee is the doubt
   Destroyed which hangs o'er my imperial right.
   As soon as England has no other choice,
   My mother's honor and my birthright triumphs!

      [She signs with resolution; lets her pen then fall,
      and steps back with an expression of terror. After
      a pause she rings.

      ELIZABETH, DAVISON.

   ELIZABETH.
   Where are their lordships?

   DAVISON.
                 They are gone to quell
   The tumult of the people. The alarm
   Was instantly appeased when they beheld
   The Earl of Shrewsbury. That's he! exclaimed
   A hundred voices—that's the man—he saved
   The queen; hear him—the bravest man in England!
   And now began the gallant Talbot, blamed
   In gentle words the people's violence,
   And used such strong, persuasive eloquence,
   That all were pacified, and silently
   They slunk away.

   ELIZABETH.
            The fickle multitude!
   Which turns with every wind. Unhappy he
   Who leans upon this reed! 'Tis well, Sir William;
   You may retire again——
      [As he is going towards the door.
               And, sir, this paper,
   Receive it back; I place it in your hands.

   DAVISON (casts a look upon the paper, and starts back).
   My gracious queen—thy name! 'tis then decided.

   ELIZABETH.
   I had but to subscribe it—I have done so—
   A paper sure cannot decide—a name
   Kills not.

   DAVISON.
         Thy name, my queen, beneath this paper
   Is most decisive—kills—'tis like the lightning,
   Which blasteth as it flies! This fatal scroll
   Commands the sheriff and commissioners
   To take departure straight for Fotheringay,
   And to the Queen of Scots announce her death,
   Which must at dawn be put in execution.
   There is no respite, no discretion here.
   As soon as I have parted with this writ
   Her race is run.

   ELIZABETH.
            Yes, sir, the Lord has placed
   This weighty business in your feeble hands;
   Seek him in prayer to light you with his wisdom;
   I go—and leave you, sir, to do your duty.

                        [Going.

   DAVISON.
   No; leave me not, my queen, till I have heard
   Your will. The only wisdom that I need
   Is, word for word, to follow your commands.
   Say, have you placed this warrant in my hands
   To see that it be speedily enforced?

   ELIZABETH.
   That you must do as your own prudence dictates.

   DAVISON (interrupting her quickly, and alarmed).
   Not mine—oh, God forbid! Obedience is
   My only prudence here. No point must now
   Be left to be decided by your servant.
   A small mistake would here be regicide,
   A monstrous crime, from which my soul recoils.
   Permit me, in this weighty act, to be
   Your passive instrument, without a will:—
   Tell me in plain, undoubted terms your pleasure,
   What with the bloody mandate I should do.

   ELIZABETH.
   Its name declares its meaning.

   DAVISON.
                   Do you, then,
   My liege, command its instant execution?

   ELIZABETH.
   I said not that; I tremble but to think it.

   DAVISON.
   Shall I retain it, then, 'till further orders?

   ELIZABETH.
   At your own risk; you answer the event.

   DAVISON.
   I! gracious heavens! Oh, speak, my queen, your pleasure!

   ELIZABETH.
   My pleasure is that this unhappy business
   Be no more mentioned to me; that at last
   I may be freed from it, and that forever.

   DAVISON.
   It costs you but a word—determine then
   What shall I do with this mysterious scroll?

   ELIZABETH.
   I have declared it, plague me, sir, no longer.

   DAVISON.
   You have declared it, say you? Oh, my queen,
   You have said nothing. Please, my gracious mistress,
   But to remember——

   ELIZABETH (stamps on the ground).
             Insupportable!

   DAVISON.
   Oh, be indulgent to me! I have entered
   Unwittingly, not many months ago,
   Upon this office; I know not the language
   Of courts and kings. I ever have been reared
   In simple, open wise, a plain blunt man.
   Be patient with me; nor deny your servant
   A light to lead him clearly to his duty.

      [He approaches her in a supplicating posture,
      she turns her back on him; he stands in despair;
      then speaks with a tone of resolution.

   Take, take again this paper—take it back!
   Within my hands it is a glowing fire.
   Select not me, my queen; select not me
   To serve you in this terrible conjecture.

   ELIZABETH.
   Go, sir;—fulfil the duty of your office.

                     [Exit.

      DAVISON, then BURLEIGH.

   DAVISON.
   She goes! She leaves me doubting and perplexed
   With this dread paper! How to act I know not;
   Should I retain it, should I forward it?

      [To BURLEIGH, who enters.

   Oh! I am glad that you are come, my lord,
   'Tis you who have preferred me to this charge;
   Now free me from it, for I undertook it,
   Unknowing how responsible it made me.
   Let me then seek again the obscurity
   In which you found me; this is not my place.

   BURLEIGH.
   How now? Take courage, sir! Where is the warrant?
   The queen was with you.

   DAVISON.
                She has quitted me
   In bitter anger. Oh, advise me, help me,
   Save me from this fell agony of doubt!
   My lord, here is the warrant: it is signed!

   BURLEIGH.
   Indeed! Oh, give it, give it me!

   DAVISON.
                     I may not.

   BURLEIGH.
   How!

   DAVISON.
      She has not yet explained her final will.

   BURLEIGH.
   Explained! She has subscribed it;—give it to me.

   DAVISON.
   I am to execute it, and I am not.
   Great heavens! I know not what I am to do!

   BURLEIGH (urging more violently).
   It must be now, this moment, executed.
   The warrant, sir. You're lost if you delay.

   DAVISON.
   So am I also if I act too rashly.

   BURLEIGH.
   What strange infatuation. Give it me.

      [Snatches the paper from him, and exit with it.

   DAVISON.
   What would you? Hold? You will be my destruction.

      The Scene the same as in the First Act.

      HANNAH KENNEDY in deep mourning, her eyes still red
      from weeping, in great but quiet anguish, is employed
      in sealing letters and parcels. Her sorrow often
      interrupts her occupation, and she is seen at such
      intervals to pray in silence. PAULET and DRURY,
      also in mourning, enter, followed by many servants,
      who bear golden and silver vessels, mirrors, paintings,
      and other valuables, and fill the back part of the stage
      with them. PAULET delivers to the NURSE a box of jewels
      and a paper, and seems to inform her by signs that it
      contains the inventory of the effects the QUEEN had brought
      with her. At the sight of these riches, the anguish of
      the NURSE is renewed; she sinks into a deep, glowing
      melancholy, during which DRURY, PAULET, and the servants
      silently retire.

      MELVIL enters.

   KENNEDY (screams aloud as soon as she observes him).
   Melvil! Is it you? Behold I you again?

   MELVIL.
   Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.

   KENNEDY.
   After this long, long, painful separation!

   MELVIL.
   A most unhappy, bitter meeting this!

   KENNEDY.
   You come——

   MELVIL.
        To take an everlasting leave
   Of my dear queen—to bid a last farewell!

   KENNEDY.
   And now at length, now on the fatal morn
   Which brings her death, they grant our royal lady
   The presence of her friends. Oh, worthy sir,
   I will not question you, how you have fared,
   Nor tell you all the sufferings we've endured,
   Since you were torn away from us: alas!
   There will be time enough for that hereafter.
   O, Melvil, Melvil, why was it our fate
   To see the dawn of this unhappy day?

   MELVIL.
   Let us not melt each other with our grief.
   Throughout my whole remaining life, as long
   As ever it may be, I'll sit and weep;
   A smile shall never more light up these cheeks,
   Ne'er will I lay this sable garb aside,
   But lead henceforth a life of endless mourning.
   Yet on this last sad day I will be firm;
   Pledge me your word to moderate your grief;
   And when the rest of comfort all bereft,
   Abandoned to despair, wail round her, we
   Will lead her with heroic resolution,
   And be her staff upon the road to death!

   KENNEDY.
   Melvil! You are deceived if you suppose
   The queen has need of our support to meet
   Her death with firmness. She it is, my friend,
   Who will exhibit the undaunted heart.
   Oh! trust me, Mary Stuart will expire
   As best becomes a heroine and queen!

   MELVIL.
   Received she firmly, then, the sad decree
   Of death?—'tis said that she was not prepared.

   KENNEDY.
   She was not; yet they were far other terrors
   Which made our lady shudder: 'twas not death,
   But her deliverer, which made her tremble.
   Freedom was promised us; this very night
   Had Mortimer engaged to bear us hence:
   And thus the queen, perplexed 'twixt hope and fear,
   And doubting still if she should trust her honor
   And royal person to the adventurous youth,
   Sat waiting for the morning. On a sudden
   We hear a boisterous tumult in the castle;
   Our ears are startled by repeated blows
   Of many hammers, and we think we hear
   The approach of our deliverers: hope salutes us,
   And suddenly and unresisted wakes
   The sweet desire of life. And now at once
   The portals are thrown open—it is Paulet,
   Who comes to tell us—that—the carpenters
   Erect beneath our feet the murderous scaffold!

      [She turns aside, overpowered by excessive anguish.

   MELVIL.
   O God in Heaven! Oh, tell me then how bore
   The queen this terrible vicissitude?

   KENNEDY (after a pause, in which she has somewhat collected herself).
   Not by degrees can we relinquish life;
   Quick, sudden, in the twinkling of an eye,
   The separation must be made, the change
   From temporal to eternal life; and God
   Imparted to our mistress at this moment
   His grace, to cast away each earthly hope,
   And firm and full of faith to mount the skies.
   No sign of pallid fear dishonored her;
   No word of mourning, 'till she heard the tidings
   Of Leicester's shameful treachery, the sad fate
   Of the deserving youth, who sacrificed
   Himself for her; the deep, the bitter anguish
   Of that old knight, who lost, through her, his last,
   His only hope; till then she shed no tear—
   'Twas then her tears began to flow, 'twas not
   Her own, but others' woe which wrung them from her.

   MELVIL.
   Where is she now? Can you not lead me to her?

   KENNEDY.
   She spent the last remainder of the night
   In prayer, and from her dearest friends she took
   Her last farewell in writing: then she wrote
   Her will 2 with her own hand. She now enjoys
   A moment of repose, the latest slumber
   Refreshes her weak spirits.

   MELVIL.
                  Who attends her?

   KENNEDY.
   None but her women and physician Burgoyn:
   You seem to look around you with surprise;
   Your eyes appear to ask me what should mean
   This show of splendor in the house of death.
   Oh, sir, while yet we lived we suffered want;
   But at our death plenty returns to us.

      Enter MARGARET CURL.

   KENNEDY.
   How, madam, fares the queen? Is she awake?

   CURL (drying her tears).
   She is already dressed—she asks for you.

   KENNEDY.
   I go:—
      [To MELVIL, who seems to wish to accompany her.
       But follow not until the queen
   Has been prepared to see you.

                   [Exit.

   CURL.
                   Melvil, sure,
   The ancient steward?

   MELVIL.
              Yes, the same.

   CURL.
                      Oh, sir,
   This is a house which needs no steward now!
   Melvil, you come from London; can you give
   No tidings of my husband?

   MELVIL.
                 It is said
   He will be set at liberty as soon——

   CURL.
   As soon as our dear queen shall be no more.
   Oh, the unworthy, the disgraceful traitor!
   He is our lady's murderer—'tis said
   It was his testimony which condemned him.

   MELVIL.
   'Tis true.

   CURL.
         Oh, curse upon him! Be his soul
   Condemned forever! he has borne false witness.

   MELVIL.
   Think, madam, what you say.

   CURL.
                  I will maintain it
   With every sacred oath before the court,
   I will repeat it in his very face;
   The world shall hear of nothing else. I say
   That she dies innocent!

   MELVIL..
                God grant it true!

   2 The document is now in the British Museum.

      Enter HANNAH KENNEDY.

   KENNEDY (to CURL).
   Go, madam, and require a cup of wine—
   'Tis for our lady.

   MELVIL.
             Is the queen then sick?

   KENNEDY.
   She thinks that she is strong; she is deceived
   By her heroic courage; she believes
   She has no need of nourishment; yet still
   A hard and painful task's allotted her.
   Her enemies shall not enjoy the triumph;
   They shall not say that fear hath blanched her cheeks
   When her fatigues have conquered human weakness.

   MELVIL.
   May I approach her?

   KENNEDY.
              She will come herself.

      Enter BURGOYN; two women of the chamber follow him,
      weeping, and in deep mourning.

   BURGOYN.
   Oh, Melvil!

   MELVIL.
          Oh, Burgoyn!

      [They embrace silently.

   FIRST WOMAN (to the NURSE).
                 She chose to be
   Alone: she wishes, at this awful moment,
   For the last time, to commune with her God.

      Enter MARGARET CURL, bearing a golden cup of wine;
      she places it hastily upon the table, and leans,
      pale and trembling, against a chair.

   MELVIL.
   How, madam! What has frightened you?

   KENNEDY.
                       Oh God!

   BURGOYN.
   Speak, madam!

   CURL.
           What, alas! have I beheld!

   MELVIL.
   Come to yourself, and say what you have seen!

   CURL.
   As I went down the staircase which conducts
   To the great hall below, a door stood open;
   I looked into the chamber, and I saw—
   Oh heaven!

   MELVIL.
         What saw you?

   CURL.
                 All the walls were hung
   With black; a spacious scaffold, too, o'erspread
   With sable cloth, was raised above the floor,
   And in the middle of the scaffold stood
   A dreadful sable block! upon it lay
   A naked, polished axe:—the hall was full
   Of cruel people, crowding round the scaffold
   Who, with a horrid thirst for human blood,
   Seemed waiting for the victim!

   THE WOMEN.
                   Gracious heaven,
   Protect our queen!

   MELVIL.
             Be calm; the queen approaches.

      Enter MARY in white and sumptuously arrayed, as
      for a festival: she wears hanging from her neck,
      on a row of small beads, an Agnus Dei; a rosary
      hangs from her girdle; she bears a crucifix in
      her hand, and a diadem of precious stones binds
      her hair; her large black veil is thrown back.
      On her entrance all present fall back on both sides
      with the most violent expressions of anguish.
      MELVIL falls involuntarily upon his knees.

   MARY (with quiet majesty, looking round the whole circle).
   Why these complaints? Why weep ye? Ye should rather
   Rejoice with me, that now at length the end
   Of my long woe approaches; that my shackles
   Fall off, my prison opens, and my soul
   Delighted mounts on seraph's wings, and seeks
   The land of everlasting liberty.
   When I was offered up to the oppression
   Of my proud enemy, was forced to suffer
   Ignoble taunts, and insults most unfitting
   A free and sovereign queen, then was the time
   To weep for me; but as an earnest friend,
   Beneficent and healing death approaches.
   All the indignities which I have suffered
   On earth are covered by his sable wings.
   The most degraded criminal's ennobled
   By his last sufferings, by his final exit;
   I feel again the crown upon my brows.
   And dignity possess my swelling soul!

      [Advancing a few steps.

   How! Melvil here! My worthy sir, not so;
   Arise; you rather come in time to see
   The triumph of your mistress than her death.
   One comfort, which I never had expected,
   Is granted me, that after death my name
   Will not be quite abandoned to my foes;
   One friend at least, one partner of my faith,
   Will be my witness in the hour of death.
   Say, honest Melvil, how you fared the while
   In this inhospitable, hostile land?
   For since the time they tore you from my side
   My fears for you have oft depressed my soul.

   MELVIL.
   No other evil galled me but my grief
   For thee, and that I wanted power to serve thee.

   MARY.
   How fares my chamberlain, old Didier?
   But sure the faithful servant long has slept
   The sleep of death, for he was full of years.

   MELVIL.
   God hath not granted him as yet this grace;
   He lives to see the grave o'erwhelm thy youth.

   MARY.
   Oh! could I but have felt before my death,
   The happiness of pressing one descendant
   Of the dear blood of Stuart to my bosom.
   But I must suffer in a foreign land,
   None but my servants to bewail my fate!
   Sir; to your loyal bosom I commit
   My latest wishes. Bear then, sir, my blessing
   To the most Christian king, my royal brother,
   And the whole royal family of France.
   I bless the cardinal, my honored uncle,
   And also Henry Guise, my noble cousin.
   I bless the holy father, the vicegerent
   Of Christ on earth, who will, I trust, bless me.
   I bless the King of Spain, who nobly offered
   Himself as my deliverer, my avenger.
   They are remembered in my will: I hope
   That they will not despise, how poor soe'er
   They be, the presents of a heart which loves them.

      [Turning to her servants.

   I have bequeathed you to my royal brother
   Of France; he will protect you, he will give you
   Another country, and a better home;
   And if my last desire have any weight,
   Stay not in England; let no haughty Briton
   Glut his proud heart with your calamities,
   Nor see those in the dust who once were mine.
   Swear by this image of our suffering Lord
   To leave this fatal land when I'm no more.

   MELVIL (touching the crucifix).
   I swear obedience in the name of all.

   MARY.
   What I, though poor and plundered, still possess,
   Of which I am allowed to make disposal,
   Shall be amongst you shared; for I have hope
   In this at least my will may be fulfilled.
   And what I wear upon my way to death
   Is yours—nor envy me on this occasion
   The pomp of earth upon the road to heaven.

      [To the ladies of her chamber.

   To you, my Alice, Gertrude, Rosamund,
   I leave my pearls, my garments: you are young,
   And ornament may still delight your hearts.
   You, Margaret, possess the nearest claims,
   To you I should be generous: for I leave you
   The most unhappy woman of them all.
   That I have not avenged your husband's fault
   On you I hope my legacy will prove.
   The worth of gold, my Hannah, charms not thee;
   Nor the magnificence of precious stones:
   My memory, I know, will be to thee
   The dearest jewel; take this handkerchief,
   I worked it for thee, in the hours of sorrow,
   With my own hands, and my hot, scalding tears
   Are woven in the texture:—you will bind
   My eyes with this, when it is time: this last
   Sad service I would wish but from my Hannah.

   KENNEDY.
   O Melvil! I cannot support it.

   MARY.
                    Come,
   Come all and now receive my last farewell.

      [She stretches forth her hands; the WOMEN
      violently weeping, fall successively at her feet,
      and kiss her outstretched hand.

   Margaret, farewell—my Alice, fare thee well;
   Thanks, Burgoyn, for thy honest, faithful service—
   Thy lips are hot, my Gertrude:—I have been
   Much hated, yet have been as much beloved.
   May a deserving husband bless my Gertrude,
   For this warm, glowing heart is formed for love.
   Bertha, thy choice is better, thou hadst rather
   Become the chaste and pious bride of heaven;
   Oh! haste thee to fulfil thy vows; the goods
   Of earth are all deceitful; thou may'st learn
   This lesson from thy queen. No more; farewell,
   Farewell, farewell, my friends, farewell for ever.

      [She turns suddenly from them; all but MELVIL
      retire at different sides.