Mary Stuart. Friedrich von Schiller

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         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.

         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.

         She shall have judgment where she hath transgressed.

         Her narrow bonds restrain her from transgression.

         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.

         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.

         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.

         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.

         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.

         Here comes the queen.

                     Christ's image in her hand.

         Pride, and all worldly lusts within her heart.

         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 СКАЧАТЬ