Part 369 (1/2)

None will, by speaking in her favor, dare To meet thy anger: stiffer, then, an old And faithful counsellor (whom naught on earth Can tempt on the grave's brink) to exercise The pious duty of humanity.

It never shall be said that, in thy council, Pa.s.sion and interest could find a tongue, While mercy's pleading voice alone was mute, All circ.u.mstances have conspired against her; Thou ne'er hast seen her face, and nothing speaks Within thy breast for one that's stranger to thee.

I do not take the part of her misdeeds; They say 'twas she who planned her husband's murder: 'Tis true that she espoused his murderer.

A grievous crime, no doubt; but then it happened In darksome days of trouble and dismay, In the stern agony of civil war, When she, a woman, helpless and hemmed in By a rude crowd of rebel va.s.sals, sought Protection in a powerful chieftain's arms.

G.o.d knows what arts were used to overcome her!

For woman is a weak and fragile thing.

ELIZABETH.

Woman's not weak; there are heroic souls Among the s.e.x; and, in my presence, sir, I do forbid to speak of woman's weakness.

TALBOT.

Misfortune was for thee a rigid school; Thou wast not stationed on the sunny side Of life; thou sawest no throne, from far, before thee; The grave was gaping for thee at thy feet.

At Woodstock, and in London's gloomy tower, 'Twas there the gracious father of this land Taught thee to know thy duty, by misfortune.

No flatterer sought thee there: there learned thy soul, Far from the noisy world and its distractions, To commune with itself, to think apart, And estimate the real goods of life.

No G.o.d protected this poor sufferer: Transplanted in her early youth to France, The court of levity and thoughtless joys, There, in the round of constant dissipation, She never heard the earnest voice of truth; She was deluded by the glare of vice, And driven onward by the stream of ruin.

Hers was the vain possession of a face, And she outshone all others of her s.e.x As far in beauty, as in n.o.ble birth.

ELIZABETH.

Collect yourself, my Lord of Shrewsbury; Bethink you we are met in solemn council.

Those charms must surely be without compare, Which can engender, in an elder's blood, Such fire. My Lord of Leicester, you alone Are silent; does the subject which has made Him eloquent, deprive you of your speech?

LEICESTER.

Amazement ties my tongue, my queen, to think That they should fill thy soul with such alarms, And that the idle tales, which, in the streets, Of London, terrify the people's ears, Should reach the enlightened circle of thy council, And gravely occupy our statesmen's minds.

Astonishment possesses me, I own, To think this lackland Queen of Scotland, she Who could not save her own poor throne, the jest Of her own va.s.sals, and her country's refuse, [Who in her fairest days of freedom, was But thy despised puppet,] should become At once thy terror when a prisoner.

What, in Heaven's name, can make her formidable?

That she lays claim to England? that the Guises Will not acknowledge thee as queen?

[Did then Thy people's loyal fealty await These Guises' approbation?] Can these Guises, With their objections, ever shake the right Which birth hath given thee; which, with one consent, The votes of parliament have ratified?

And is not she, by Henry's will, pa.s.sed o'er In silence? Is it probable that England, As yet so blessed in the new light's enjoyment, Should throw itself into this papist's arms?

From thee, the sovereign it adores, desert To Darnley's murderess? What will they then, These restless men, who even in thy lifetime Torment thee with a successor; who cannot Dispose of thee in marriage soon enough To rescue church and state from fancied peril?

Stand'st thou not blooming there in youthful prime While each step leads her towards the expecting tomb?

By Heavens, I hope thou wilt full many a year Walk o'er the Stuart's grave, and ne'er become Thyself the instrument of her sad end.

BURLEIGH.

Lord Leicester hath not always held this tone.

LEICESTER.

'Tis true, I in the court of justice gave My verdict for her death; here, in the council, I may consistently speak otherwise Here, right is not the question, but advantage.

Is this a time to fear her power, when France, Her only succor, has abandoned her?

When thou preparest with thy hand to bless The royal son of France, when the fair hope Of a new, glorious stem of sovereigns Begins again to blossom in this land?

Why hasten then her death? She's dead already.

Contempt and scorn are death to her; take heed Lest ill-timed pity call her into life.

'Tis therefore my advice to leave the sentence, By which her life is forfeit, in full force.