Mary Stuart. Friedrich von Schiller

         Despatch is here the fashion. Is it meant

         The murderer shall surprise me, like the judges?

         Still entertain that thought and he will find you

         Better prepared to meet your fate than they did.

         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.

         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.

         Uncle, you're sought for.

                       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.

         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.

         And dare the ruffian venture to your face

         Such language! Oh, 'tis hard – 'tis past endurance.

         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.

         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.

                         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.

         What thoughts are these —

                      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.

         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.

         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.

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

         But it was known to me; I suffered it,

         And lured him with my smiles to death's embrace.

         Your youth extenuates your guilt. You were

         Of tender years.

                  So tender, yet I drew

         This heavy guilt upon my youthful head.

         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