Mary Queen of Scots
According to her Advocates.
Thou pleadest well, yet some will say, and weep
To say it :' See, the fond historian stands
Chafing the blood from Mary's snowy hands
In vain, for still their ancient stains they keep ;'
I join them not—I, too, am fain to think
That thou hast wrought a credible disproof
Of that old verdict. Shall I hold aloof,
And shut my heart up from the veriest blink
Of charitable sunshine, that descends
On this still-closing, still-re-opening bud
Of unproved innocence ? O Holyrood !
Speak, for thou knowest ! Tell the means, the ends
Of that dark conclave ! All good spirits move
The lost truth to the light ; it is a work of love !
When the young hand of Darnley locked in hers
Had knit her to her northern doom--amid
The spousal pomp of flags and trumpeters,
Her fate looked forth and was no longer hid;
A jealous brain beneath a southern crown
Wrought spells upon her; from afar she felt
The waxen image of her fortunes melt
Beneath the Tudor's eye, while the grim frown
Of her own lords o'ermastered her sweet smiles,
And nipped her growing gladness, till she mourned,
And sank, at last, beneath their cruel wiles;
But, ever since, all generous hearts have burned
To clear her fame, yes, very babes have yearned
Over this saddest story of the isles.
According to her Advocates.
Thou pleadest well, yet some will say, and weep
To say it :' See, the fond historian stands
Chafing the blood from Mary's snowy hands
In vain, for still their ancient stains they keep ;'
I join them not—I, too, am fain to think
That thou hast wrought a credible disproof
Of that old verdict. Shall I hold aloof,
And shut my heart up from the veriest blink
Of charitable sunshine, that descends
On this still-closing, still-re-opening bud
Of unproved innocence ? O Holyrood !
Speak, for thou knowest ! Tell the means, the ends
Of that dark conclave ! All good spirits move
The lost truth to the light ; it is a work of love !
When the young hand of Darnley locked in hers
Had knit her to her northern doom--amid
The spousal pomp of flags and trumpeters,
Her fate looked forth and was no longer hid;
A jealous brain beneath a southern crown
Wrought spells upon her; from afar she felt
The waxen image of her fortunes melt
Beneath the Tudor's eye, while the grim frown
Of her own lords o'ermastered her sweet smiles,
And nipped her growing gladness, till she mourned,
And sank, at last, beneath their cruel wiles;
But, ever since, all generous hearts have burned
To clear her fame, yes, very babes have yearned
Over this saddest story of the isles.