Mary Stuart. Friedrich von Schiller

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         Excellent man! All is not lost, indeed,

         While such a friend remains in my misfortunes!

         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 bastard.

         And taught me to lament you as a victim,

         To honor you as my true queen, whom I,

         Deceived, like thousands of my noble 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.

         Oh, this unhappy right! – 'tis this alone

         Which is the source of all my sufferings.

         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 shores I landed. Oh, my queen.

         I saw then, not your picture, but yourself —

         Oh, what a treasure do these walls enclose!

         No prison this, but the abode of gods,

         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.

                        'Twere well with her,

         If every Briton saw her with your eyes!

         Were each, like me, a witness of your wrongs,

         Your meekness, and the noble fortitude

         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.

                       My sentence then!

         It is pronounced? Speak freely – I can bear it.

         It is pronounced! 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.

         Sir, I am not surprised, nor terrified.

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