Mary Stuart. Friedrich von Schiller

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         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.

         Will she then dare, regardless of the shame,

         Lay my crowned head upon the fatal block?

         She will most surely dare it, doubt it not.

         And can she thus roll in the very dust

         Her own, and every monarch's majesty?

         She thinks on nothing now but present danger,

         Nor looks to that which is so far removed.

         And fears she not the dread revenge of France?

         With France she makes an everlasting peace;

         And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.

         Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?

         She fears not a collected world in arms?

         If with her people she remains at peace.

         Were this a spectacle for British eyes?

         This land, my queen, has, in these latter days,

         Seen many a royal woman from the throne

         Descend and mount the scaffold: – her own mother

         And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path;

         And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?

         No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you;

         'Tis but the honest care of your true heart,

         Which conjures up these empty apprehensions.

         It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear:

         There are so many still and secret means

         By which her majesty of England may

         Set all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ere

         An executioner is found for me,

         Assassins will be hired to do their work.

         'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer:

         I never lift the goblet to my lips

         Without an inward shuddering, lest the draught

         May have been mingled by my sister's love.

         No: – neither open or disguised murder

         Shall e'er prevail against you: – fear no more;

         All is prepared; – twelve nobles of the land

         Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day,

         Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you,

         With dauntless arm, from this captivity.

         Count Aubespine, the French ambassador,

         Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance:

         'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.

         You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy!

         An evil boding penetrates my heart.

         Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared

         By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads,

         Set up as warnings upon London's bridge?

         Nor by the ruin of those many victims

         Who have, in such attempts, found certain death,

         And only made my chains the heavier?

         Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth!

         Fly, if there yet be time for you, before

         That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes,

         And mix his traitors in your secret plots.

         Fly hence: – as yet, success hath never smiled

         On Mary Stuart's champions.

                        I am not scared

         By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads

         Set up as warnings upon London's bridge;

         Nor by the ruin of those many victims

         Who have, in such attempts, found certain death:

         They also found therein immortal honor,

         And death, in rescuing you, is dearest bliss.

         It is in vain: nor force nor guile can save me: —

         My enemies are watchful, and the power

         Is in their hands. It is not Paulet only

         And his dependent host; all England guards

         My prison gates: Elizabeth's free will

         Alone can open them.

                    Expect not that.

         One man alone on earth can open them.

         Oh, let me know his name!

                       Lord Leicester.

                               He!

         The Earl of Leicester! Your most bloody foe,

         The favorite of Elizabeth! through him —

         If I am to be saved at all, 'twill be

         Through him, and him alone. Go to him, sir;

         Freely confide in him: and, as a proof

         You come from me, present this paper to him.

            and hesitates to take it.

         It doth contain my portrait: СКАЧАТЬ