Mary Stuart. Фридрих Шиллер

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       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.

       MARY.

       Oh, this unhappy right!—'tis this alone

       Which is the source of all my sufferings.

       MORTIMER.

       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.

       [He pauses.

       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.

       MARY.

       'Twere well with her,

       If every Briton saw her with your eyes!

       MORTIMER.

       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.

       MARY.

       My sentence then!

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

       MORTIMER.

       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.

       MARY (collected).

       Sir, I am not surprised, nor terrified.

       I have been long prepared for such a message.

       Too well I know my judges. After all

       Their cruel treatment I can well conceive

       They dare not now restore my liberty.

       I know their aim: they mean to keep me here

       In everlasting bondage, and to bury,

       In the sepulchral darkness of my prison,

       My vengeance with me, and my rightful claims.

       MORTIMER.

       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.

       MARY.

       Will she then dare, regardless of the shame,

       Lay my crowned head upon the fatal block?

       MORTIMER.

       She will most surely dare it, doubt it not.

       MARY.

       And can she thus roll in the very dust

       Her own, and every monarch's majesty?

       MORTIMER.

       She thinks on nothing now but present danger,

       Nor looks to that which is so far removed.

       MARY.

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