Mary Stuart: A Tragedy Part 5

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 n.o.ble Morgan, And your true Lesley, Ross's learned bishop, Who pa.s.s 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

[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 n.o.ble 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 sh.o.r.es 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 G.o.ds, 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 n.o.ble fort.i.tude 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 p.r.o.nounced? Speak freely--I can bear it.

MORTIMER.

It is p.r.o.nounced! 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.