Mary Stuart. Friedrich von Schiller

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         Compose yourself, my Hannah! and believe me,

         'Tis not these baubles that can make a queen —

         Basely indeed they may behave to us,

         But they cannot debase us. I have learned

         To use myself to many a change in England;

         I can support this too. Sir, you have taken

         By force what I this very day designed

         To have delivered to you. There's a letter

         Amongst these papers for my royal sister

         Of England. Pledge me, sir, your word of honor,

         To give it to her majesty's own hands,

         And not to the deceitful care of Burleigh.

         I shall consider what is best to do.

         Sir, you shall know its import. In this letter

         I beg a favor, a great favor of her, —

         That she herself will give me audience, – she

         Whom I have never seen. I have been summoned

         Before a court of men, whom I can ne'er

         Acknowledge as my peers – of men to whom

         My heart denies its confidence. The queen

         Is of my family, my rank, my sex;

         To her alone – a sister, queen, and woman —

         Can I unfold my heart.

                     Too oft, my lady,

         Have you intrusted both your fate and honor

         To men less worthy your esteem than these.

         I, in the letter, beg another favor,

         And surely naught but inhumanity

         Can here reject my prayer. These many years

         Have I, in prison, missed the church's comfort,

         The blessings of the sacraments – and she

         Who robs me of my freedom and my crown,

         Who seeks my very life, can never wish

         To shut the gates of heaven upon my soul.

         Whene'er you wish, the dean shall wait upon you.

         Talk to me not of deans. I ask the aid

         Of one of my own church – a Catholic priest.

         [That is against the published laws of England.

         The laws of England are no rule for me.

         I am not England's subject; I have ne'er

         Consented to its laws, and will not bow

         Before their cruel and despotic sway.

         If 'tis your will, to the unheard-of rigor

         Which I have borne, to add this new oppression,

         I must submit to what your power ordains;

         Yet will I raise my voice in loud complaints.]

         I also wish a public notary,

         And secretaries, to prepare my will —

         My sorrows and my prison's wretchedness

         Prey on my life – my days, I fear, are numbered —

         I feel that I am near the gates of death.

         These serious contemplations well become you.

         And know I then that some too ready hand

         May not abridge this tedious work of sorrow?

         I would indite my will and make disposal

         Of what belongs to me.

                     This liberty

         May be allowed to you, for England's queen

         Will not enrich herself by plundering you.

         I have been parted from my faithful women,

         And from my servants; tell me, where are they?

         What is their fate? I can indeed dispense

         At present with their service, but my heart

         Will feel rejoiced to know these faithful ones

         Are not exposed to suffering and to want!

         Your servants have been cared for; [and again

         You shall behold whate'er is taken from you

         And all shall be restored in proper season.]

         And will you leave my presence thus again,

         And not relieve my fearful, anxious heart

         From the fell torments of uncertainty?

         Thanks to the vigilance of your hateful spies,

         I am divided from the world; no voice

         Can reach me through these prison-walls; my fate

         Lies in the hands of those who wish my ruin.

         A month of dread suspense is passed already

         Since when the forty high commissioners

         Surprised me in this castle, and erected,

         With most unseemly haste, their dread tribunal;

         They forced me, stunned, amazed, and unprepared,

         Without an advocate, from memory,

         Before their unexampled court, to answer

         Their weighty charges, artfully arranged.

         They came like ghosts, – like ghosts they disappeared,

         And since that day all mouths are closed to me.

         In vain I seek to construe from your looks

         Which hath prevailed – my cause's innocence

         And my friends' zeal – or my foes' cursed counsel.

         Oh, break this silence! let me know the worst;

         What have I still to fear, and what to hope.

         Close your accounts with heaven.

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