Bothwell A Poem In Six Parts: By William Edmondstoune Aytoun: Third Edition, Revised |
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 | Bothwell |  |
BOTHWELL
A POEM In Six Parts
TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, BART., M.P.,
IN MEMORY OF A VISIT TO HOLYROOD, THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED
BY THE AUTHOR.
1. PART FIRST.
1
I.
Cold—cold! The wind howls fierce without;It drives the sleet and snow;
With thundering hurl, the angry sea
Smites on the crags below.
Each wave that leaps against the rock
Makes this old prison reel—
God! cast it down upon my head,
And let me cease to feel!
Cold—cold! The brands are burning out,
The dying embers wane;
The drops fall plashing from the roof
Like slow and sullen rain.
2
Who keep me fettered here,
Are feasting in the hall above,
And holding Christmas cheer.
When the wind pauses for its breath,
I hear their idiot bray,
The laugh, the shout, the stamping feet,
The song and roundelay:
They pass the jest, they quaff the cup,
The Yule-log sparkles brave,
They riot o'er my dungeon-vault
As though it were my grave.
Ay, howl again, thou bitter wind,
Roar louder yet, thou sea,
And drown the gusts of brutal mirth
That mock and madden me!
Ho, ho! the Eagle of the North
Has stooped upon the main!
Scream on, O eagle, in thy flight,
Through blast and hurricane—
And, when thou meetest on thy way
The black and plunging bark
3
Stand quaking in the dark,
Down with thy pinion on the mast,
Scream louder in the air,
And stifle in the wallowing sea
The shrieks of their despair!
Be my avenger on this night,
When all, save I, are free;
Why should I care for mortal man,
When men care nought for me?
Care nought? They loathe me, one and all,
Else why should I be here—
I, starving in a foreign cell,
A Scottish prince and peer?
II.
O, that the madness, which at timesComes surging through my brain,
Would smite me deaf, and dumb, and blind,
No more to wake again—
Would make me, what I am indeed,
A beast within a cage,
4
Without the power to rage—
Would give me visions dark and drear,
Although they were of hell,
Instead of memories of the place
From which I stooped and fell!
III.
I was the husband of a Queen,The partner of a throne;
For one short month the sceptred might
Of Scotland was my own.
The crown that father Fergus wore
Lay ready for my hand,
Yea, but for treason, I had been
The monarch of the land;
The King of Scots, in right of her
Who was my royal bride,
The fairest woman on the earth
That ere the sun espied.
O Mary—Mary! Even now,
Seared as I am to shame,
5
At utterance of thy name!
I see her, as in bygone days,
A widow, yet a child,
Within the fields of sunny France,
When heaven and fortune smiled.
The violets grew beneath her feet,
The lilies budded fair,
All that is beautiful and bright
Was gathered round her there.
O lovelier than the fairest flower
That ever bloomed on green,
Was she, the darling of the land,
That young and spotless Queen!
The sweet, sweet smile upon her lips,
Her eyes so kind and clear,
The magic of her gentle voice,
That even now I hear!
And nobles knelt, and princes bent
Before her as she came;
A Queen by gift of nature she,
More than a Queen in name.
6
Unused to courtly ways,
Whose tongue was never tutored yet
To lisp in polished phrase;
I, who would rather on the heath
Confront a feudal foe,
Than linger in a royal hall
Where lackeys come and go—
I, who had seldom bent the knee
At mass, or yet at prayer,
Bowed down in homage at her feet,
And paid my worship there!
IV.
My worship? yes! My fealty? ay!—Rise, Satan, if thou wilt,
And limn in fire, on yonder wall,
The pictures of my guilt—
Accuser! Tempter! Do thy worst,
In this malignant hour,
When God and man abandon me,
And I am in thy power—
7
Spare nothing that has been;
Thou wert not present, juggling fiend,
When first I saw my Queen!
V.
I worshipped; and as pure a heartTo her, I swear, was mine,
As ever breathed a truthful vow
Before Saint Mary's shrine:
I thought of her, as of a star
Within the heavens above,
That such as I might gaze upon,
But never dare to love.
I swore to her that day my troth,
As belted earl and knight,
That I would still defend her throne,
And aye protect her right.
Well; who dare call me traitor now?
My faith I never sold;
These fingers never felt the touch
Of England's proffered gold.
8
My soul has ever been;
I did not sell my country's rights,
Nor fawn on England's Queen!
Why stand'st thou ever at my head?
False devil, hence, I say!
And seek for traitors, black as hell,
'Mongst those who preach and pray!
Get thee across the howling seas,
And bend o'er Murray's bed,
For there the falsest villain lies
That ever Scotland bred.
False to his vows, a wedded priest;
Still falser to the Crown;
False to the blood, that in his veins
Made bastardy renown;
False to his sister, whom he swore
To guard and shield from harm;
The head of many a felon plot,
But never once the arm!
What tie so holy that his hand
Hath snapt it not in twain?
9
For selfish end or gain?
A verier knave ne'er stepped the earth
Since this wide world began;
And yet—he bandies texts with Knox,
And walks a pious man!
VI.
Get thee to crafty Lethington,That alchemist in wile,
To grim Glencairn, the preacher's pride,
To Cassilis and Argyle—
To Morton, steeped in lust and guilt,
My old confederate he!—
O well for him that 'twixt us twain
There rolls the trackless sea!
O well for him that never more
On Scottish hill or plain,
My foot shall tread, my shadow fall,
My voice be heard again:
For there are words that I could speak
Would make him blench and quail,
10
Amidst his men of mail!—
Get thee to them, who sold their Queen
For foreign gold and pay;
Assail them, rack them, mock them, fiend!
Bide with them till the day,
But leave me here alone to-night—
No fear that I will pray!
VII.
O many a deed that I have doneWeighs heavy on my soul;
For I have been a sinful man,
And never, since my life began,
Have bowed me to control.
Perchance my temper was too rude,
Perchance my pride too great;
Perchance it was my fantasy,
Perchance it was my fate!
I will not pour my muttered guilt
In any shaveling's ear,
11
Were death and judgment near.
They shall not weigh those deeds of mine
By moral code or rule;
Man deals with man by human laws,
And judges like a fool!
VIII.
In Scotland, when my name is heard,From Orkney's utmost bound,
To where Tweed's silver waters run,
Men shudder at the sound.
They will not even deign to pray
For one so lost and vile—
They, who have raced to see me ride,
They, who have waited by my side
For nothing save a smile!
And yet I am not guiltier now
Than when they sought me there;
Not more deserving of their curse,
Less worthy of their prayer!
12
IX.
What charge—what crime? Come, trusty peers,Come all of you, and say
Why I should be a prisoner here,
And you be free to-day!
You dealt with England—that's assured!
You murdered Riccio too;
And he who planned that felon deed,
And, with his wife in view,
Plunged his weak dagger in the corpse—
That coward wretch I slew!
X.
A king? he was no king of mine!A weak and worthless boy—
A fool in whose insensate hand
The fairest jewel of the land
Lay a neglected toy.
A man, indeed, in outward form,
But not a man in mind,
13
Than many a vassal hind.
O had I earlier sought the place
That late—too late—was mine;
Had I but seen the woman then,
And deemed her less divine,
When first upon the Scottish shore
She, like a radiant star,
Descended, bringing hope and mirth
From those bright realms afar;
When all men's hearts were blithe and glad
To greet their youthful Queen,
And once again within the land
A happy face was seen—
I might have made my homage more
Than that of subject peer,
And with my oath of loyalty
Have blent a vow more dear.
For I had friends enow to back;
And, with my kith and kin,
Who held the Borders, far and wide,
And hemmed the marches in,
14
To all who dared advance
To claim the hand of Scotland's Queen,
The widow-child of France!
Had I but sent the cry abroad,
That neither English peer,
Nor Scottish lord from England's court
Should be our master here—
Had I but trusted to myself,
And bravely ta'en my stand,
Then Darnley never would have been
The King within the land.
XI.
Too late—too late! Poor Mary stoodUnfriended and alone,
The tenant of a dreary hall,
A melancholy throne:
No more, as in her grandsire's days,
Surrounded by a ring
Of valiant lords and faithful knights,
15
Would die beside their King.
Set was the star of chivalry
That erst had gleamed so pure
Upon the crests of those who lay
On Flodden's fatal moor.
Gone were the merry times of old,
The masque, and mirth, and glee;
And wearier was the palace then
Than prison needs to be.
Forbidden were the vesper bells,—
They broke the Sabbath calm!
Hushed were the notes of minstrelsy—
They chimed not with the psalm:
'Twas sin to smile, 'twas sin to laugh,
'Twas sin to sport or play,
And heavier than a hermit's fast
Was each dull holiday.
Was but the sound of laughter heard,
Or tinkling of a lute,
Or, worse than all, in royal hall,
The tread of dancing foot—
16
Would Knox with unction tell
The vengeance that in days of old
Had fallen on Jezebel!
XII.
She stood alone, without a friendOn whom her arm might lean:
No true and trusty counsellors
Were there to serve their Queen;
But moody men, with sullen looks,
And faces hard and keen.
They who professed the later faith
Were trembling for their hold
Of the broad lands and fertile fields
Owned by the Church of old.
Apostles they of easy walk—
No martyrdom or pain—
What marvel if they loved a creed
That brought such pleasant gain?
What marvel if their greedy hearts
Were wrung with abject fear,
17
And strip them of their gear?
How could they serve a Papist Queen
With loyal hearts and true?
How own a rank idolatress,
With Paradise in view?
England was near, and England's Queen
Defied both France and Rome—
What marvel if they went to her,
And broke their faith at home?
XIII.
And she, the sister, maiden Queen—Rare maid and sister she!
True daughter of the Tudor line,
Who claimed her crown by right divine,
And ruled o'er land and sea—
She who might well, without disgrace,
Or any thought of fear,
Have deigned, from her established place,
To succour one so near—
18
And generous in deed,—
How did she deal with Scotland's Queen,
How help her in her need?
XIV.
By heaven!—if I dare speak the word,—I, steeped in guilt and crime,
I, who must bear the heaviest curse
Of this distracted time—
By heaven! I think, had Scotland stood
Unfriended and alone,
Left to herself, without intrigue
From any neighbour throne;
Free to decide, and mould, and fix
The manner of her sway,
No Scottish soul had ever stooped
To cozen or betray!
I say it—I, the twice betrayed,
Their victim and their tool—
I, whom they made the sacrifice
For their unrighteous rule;
19
Who drove me here to shame—
Theirs is the lesser, paltrier guilt,
And theirs the meaner blame!
XV.
They durst not, had they stood alone,Inheritors of names
That over Christendom have flown,
As stream the northern flames,—
Whose fathers, in their silent graves,
Sleep peacefully and well,
Scotland's great champions while they lived,
And greater when they fell—
They durst not so have wronged their blood,
And smirched their fair renown,
Have flung their honour to the winds,
And leagued against the crown.
But at the gate the Temptress stood,
Not beautiful nor young;
Nor luring, as a Syren might,
By magic of her tongue;
20
Yet artful to beguile,
A woman, without woman's heart,
Or woman's sunny smile:
By nature tyrannous and vain,
By state-craft false and mean,
She hated Mary from her soul,
As woman and as Queen!
XVI.
Men hate, because in act or strifeThey cross each other's path;
Short is the space for jealousy,
And fierce the hour of wrath:
Their passion, like the autumn flood,
Sweeps o'er the plains below;
But woman's hate runs deeper far,
Though noiseless in its flow.
A fairer face, a higher place,
More worship, more applause,
Will make a woman loathe her friend
Without a deadlier cause.
21
The gloaming with the day,
Ay, even in the deeps of night
Will shadows force their way:
For ever, when the peerless moon
Is riding clear in heaven,
Some sullen cloud, by envious winds,
Athwart its disc is driven.
Yet vainly does the shadow seek
A borrowed light to steal,
The cloud is darker for the orb
It cannot quite conceal.
And so, though minions bent the knee
To England's haughty Queen,
And swore in verse and fulsome rhyme,
That never, since the birth of time,
Was such an angel seen,
The instinct of her cold proud heart
Despised the sordid lie,
Yet still she smiled, as women smile,
Who will not deign to sigh.
22
XVII.
And cause had she to hate and fearPast woman's pride alone;
For Boleyn's daughter sate not safe
Nor surely on her throne.
And many a lord of England thought
On Mary's right and claim,
And owned her in their wassail cups
As Queen, though not by name.
But why this paltering with the past?
Why mutter idly here,
As though I were in dull debate
With council or with peer?
Is it the dripping from the roof,
Or plunging of the sea,
That thus infects me with the weight
Of their monotony?
Why should I brood o'er perished things,
And, like a dotard, dream
Of visions seen but not fulfilled
Far up life's whirling stream?
23
Nor keep them in his power,
Yet these of mine have wandered wide
Within the bypast hour.
What might have been, in phantom mist
Has vanished long ago;
I need not try to trace it out,
What was, and is, I know.
Enough—no word of love was breathed
In Mary's ear by me,
When most she needed manly aid,
And when her hand was free.
But Darnley came, and woo'd, and won—
They say that death should close
All count of hate and enmity
Between the deadliest foes—
And yet—I will not forge a lie,
Here on my wretched bed—
I hated Darnley while he lived;
I hate him now, though dead!
24
XVIII.
She wedded Darnley—and a foolIn every sense was he,
With scarce the wit to be a knave
If born in low degree.
But folly, when it walks abroad
In royal guise and strain,
Will never lack for knavery
To loiter in its train.
Loose comrades of the baser sort
Were always by his side,
To whisper lewdness in his ear,
And pander to his pride.
And men who wore a graver mask,
Whose hearts were all untrue,
Essayed—it was an easy task—
To make him traitor too!
XIX.
The madman! Had he only knownHis duty, style, and place,
25
And raised to such a grace—
Had he—the winner of the prize,
For whose transcendant charms,
If deeds availed, not idle words,
Through Europe wide, a thousand lords,
Famous and proud, had drawn their swords
And courted death in arms—
Had he been gentle, faithful, true,
Kind, courteous, nobly-bred,
To her who found him fugitive,
Yet took him to her bed—
Why then, in spite of England's Queen,
Of treason hatched at home,
Of foreign league, or civil war,
Or danger yet to come,
He might have kept the foremost place
Without contending claim,
Have won a kingdom for his race
And left an honoured name.
26
XX.
Not as a Prince of high estateCame Darnley to the Queen:
His pride provoked the nobles' hate,
His folly stirred their spleen.
And fiercely blazed Elizabeth's wrath
Against the luckless pair,
For still the phantom in her path
Had been a Scottish heir.
And well she knew the ancient strain
That rings through Scotland free—
That the French Queen should bear the son
To rule all Britain to the sea,
And from the Bruce's blood should come
As near as in the ninth degree.
She was a tigress, all too fierce
For rashest love's essay;
None durst approach the royal lair
Where mateless long she lay.
And it was more than gall to her
To think that Mary's son
27
Must end what she begun.
She might have frowned a cold consent,
Had Mary stooped to take,
As spouse, an English vassal peer,
For her kind sister's sake.
But Darnley stood too near the throne,
And strong his place had been,
If ready, like a valiant knight,
Against the world to hold his right,
And more—as love and honour bade,
To vindicate the choice she made,
By duty to the Queen.
But neither honour, truth, nor love
Had power his selfish soul to move;
As cold of heart, as weak of brain,
Unused his passion to restrain,
At once the madman claimed to be
In name and power a King!
He, weak as water, frail as sand,
A beggar when on Mary's hand
He placed the marriage ring!
28
And lost to sense of shame,
He banded with her deadliest foes
To stain her spotless name!
XXI.
There was that Riccio—sharp and sly;No friend of mine, I swear,
For in that dark Italian eye
Was craft beyond my mastery,
And in his cold and subtle smile
I read the evidence of guile
Was deep implanted there.
He could not bend me to his will—
No fanatic was I;
Nor would I lend a helping hand
To rivet on my native land
The chains of Italy.
Right little cared I for the creeds
Of either Church, I trow;
I recked not which should win or lose,
And more—I reck not now.
29
His policy was vain:
What was to me the Papal cause
In France or yet in Spain?
I never stood, as Atholl did,
A soldier sworn of Rome,
Nor asked for foreign surgery
To stanch the wounds at home.
Yet Riccio may have faithful been,
And to his mistress true,
For those who hated him the worst
Were knaves and traitors too.
I cannot tell—but this I know,
That till my dying hour
I never shall forget the shriek
That rung from Mary's bower.
XXII.
'Twas night—mirk night—the sleet beat on,The wind, as now, was rude,
And I was lonely in my room
In dreary Holyrood.
30
A clash of steel below,
And from my window, in the court
I saw the torches glow.
More common were such sounds to me
Than hum of evening hymn;
I caught my sword, and hurried out
Along the passage dim.
But O, the shriek that thrilled me then—
The accents of despair,
The man's imploring agony,
The woman's frantic prayer!
“O, for the love of God and Christ,
Forbear—I will not fly!
O mistress—Queen—protect me yet,
I am not fit to die!”
“Hold! hold your hands! you shall not strike,
Unless you slay me too;
My guard! O help! they kill the Queen!
Help! husband—nobles—you—
O Ruthven—Douglas—as you trust
For mercy in your need,
31
Do not this monstrous deed!
What! Darnley, thou? let go my arm—
Unhand me, dastard knave!
To me—to me—all Scottish hearts—
Help! treason! Come and save!”
XXIII.
A door flew wide. I saw them all—Ruthven in mail complete,
George Douglas, Ker of Fawdonside,
And Riccio at their feet.
With rapiers drawn and pistols bent,
They seized their wretched prey;
They wrenched her garments from his grasp,
They stabbed him where he lay.
I saw George Douglas raise his arm,
I saw his dagger gleam;
And then I heard the dying yell,
And Mary's piteous scream.
I saw her writhe in Darnley's arms
As in a serpent's fold—
32
But would not loose his hold!
And then the torches waved and shook,
And louder grew the din,
And up the stair, and through the doors
The rest came trooping in.
What could I do? No time was that
To listen or to wait;
Thronged were the rooms with furious men,
And close beset the gate.
Morton and Lindsay kept the court,
With many a deadly foe;
And swords are swift to do their work
When blood begins to flow.
Darkling I traced the passage back
As swiftly as I came,
For in the crowd that tossed beneath
I heard them shout my name.
Enough!—that night one victim died
Before Queen Mary's face,
And in my secret heart I doomed
Another in his place.
33
They might have worked their will;
Though base it was for belted knights
So poor a wretch to kill.
But I had seen my Queen profaned,
Outraged before my face,
By him, the dastard, heartless boy,
The land's and our disgrace.
'Twas he devised the felon plot—
'Twas he that planned the crime—
He led the murderers to her room—
And—God—at what a time!
XXIV.
They call me savage, brutal, base,And more—because I wed
A trembling, sickly, shrewish dame,
And put her from my bed.
Heaven wot, the match was ill ordained;
Her heart was given elsewhere,
And for a second courtship, I
Had neither time nor care.
34
It may be in my hall
She met with ruder company
Than pleased her taste withal:
I may have wronged her by neglect,
I may have galled her pride;
But never brooked she scathe or scorn
While she was Bothwell's bride.
XXV.
But he, whom Mary's love had raisedTo such a high degree,
The lord and husband of her heart,
The father soon to be,
The man who, in the hour of pain,
Should still have kept her side—
How paid he back the matchless debt,
How did he tend his bride?
Why, had he never left her room,
But, like the grooms of yore,
To lay him on the rushes down
His lady's nest before,
35
And slumber scarce till dawn,
When her dear voice, so low and sweet,
Like breathings of a fawn,
Told that the time of rest was o'er,
And then a simple hymn
Arose, as if an angel led
The choir of seraphim—
Would such a service have been more
Than he was bound to give?
Nay, if he dared to make it less,
Deserved the boy to live?
XXVI.
I was a witness on that nightOf all his shame and guilt;
I saw his outrage on the Queen,
I saw the blood he spilt;
And, ere the day had dawned, I swore,
Whilst spurring through the sand,
I would avenge that treachery,
And slay him with my hand—
36
Would purge him from the land!
XXVII.
Ah me! and this is Christmas eve;And here alone I lie,
With nothing save my own wild thoughts
For bitter company!
My own wild thoughts, that will not pass,
Howe'er I bid them go—
My torture, yet the only friends
That visit me below.
Full many a hearth is decked this night
To hail the blessed morn,
On which, in ages long ago,
The Saviour child was born—
The churches all are wreathed with green,
The altars set with flowers,
And happy lowly hearts wait on
And count the passing hours;
Until the midnight chimes proclaim
The hallowed season come,
37
And Hell's loud roar is dumb.
Then myriad voices in acclaim
The song of homage yield,
That once from angels' lips was heard
By shepherds in the field.
Stilled for a time are angry thoughts,
The hearts of men are mild;
The father with a holier thrill
Bends o'er his slumbering child;
New is the kiss the husband gives
Unto his wedded wife,
For earthly love, when blest by Heaven,
Ends not with earthly life;
And, fountain-like, o'er all the world,
Where Christ's dear name is known,
Arise the sounds of prayer and praise
Toward the eternal throne.
But I, a slave in bondage here,
Racked—torn by mad despair—
How can I falter forth the words
Of praise or yet of prayer?
38
From mountain-folds is driven,
And what I could not win on earth
How dare I seek from Heaven?
Ay, howl again, thou winter wind—
Roar louder yet, thou sea!
For nothing else can stun the thoughts
That rise to madden me!
39
2. PART SECOND.
41
I.
The sun is bright, the day is warm,The breeze is blowing free—
Come, I will rouse me from my lair,
And look upon the sea.
'Tis clear and blue, with here and there
A little fleck of foam;
And yonder glides a stately ship,
Bound on her voyage home.
The fishers, on the scanty sward,
Spread out their nets to dry,
And whistle o'er their lazy task
In happy vacancy.
Swift by the window skims the tern,
On light and glancing wing,
42
Gives token of the spring.
Fair is the sight, yet strange to me;
No memories I recall,
While gazing on the headland cliffs,
And waves that leap and fall;
No visions of my boyish days,
Or manhood's sterner prime,
Arise from yonder watery waste,
To cheer me for a time.
II.
For I was reared among the hills,Within a Border home,
Where, brawling down their narrow glens,
The mountain torrents come;
And well I know the bonny braes
Where the first primrose blows,
And shrinking tufts of violets
Rise from the melting snows,
Ere yet the hazel leaf is out,
Or birches show their green,
43
A kindling bud is seen.
O Hermitage, by Liddel's side,
My old ancestral tower!
Were I again but lord of thee—
Not owning half the power
That in my days of reckless pride
I held, but cast away—
I would not leave thee, Border keep,
Until my dying day!
Wise was Buccleuch, and Cessford too,
Who stoutly held their own,
And little cared, amidst their clans,
For threat from either throne.
They range at will the mountain paths,
They hear the falcon cry;
And here, within a loathly cell,
A fettered slave am I.
III.
Who owns thee now, fair Hermitage?Who sits within my hall?
44
Above that stately wall?
Does yet the court-yard ring with tramp
Of horses and of men;
Do bay of hounds and bugle-note
Sound merry from the glen?
Or art thou, as thy master is,
A rent and ruined pile,
Once noble, but deserted now
By all that is not vile?
What matters it? These eyes of mine
Shall never see thee more;
Still in my thought must thou abide
As stately as of yore,
When, Warden of the Marches three,
In Mary's right I came
To still the rugged Border feuds,
And trample out the flame.
IV.
Good faith! I had but little zealTo meddle with the knaves,
45
And fought for bloody graves.
No war was then between the lands,
Else swift and sure, I ween,
Each Border clan, on Scottish soil,
Had mustered for their Queen;
The tidings of an English raid
Had joined them, heart and hand;
For well the jackmen knew the wealth
Of canny Cumberland.
One note of war—and all our feuds
Had vanished like the snow
From off the fells by Teviot-side,
When the warm May winds blow.
But peace abroad breeds strife at home;
Old cause of quarrel rose;
Clan fought with clan, and name with name,
As fierce and deadly foes.
To them came I in evil hour—
Most perilous the tide;
For he who seeks to part a fray,
Wins strokes from either side.
46
To hunt an Armstrong down,
Or make a Johnstone yield his sword
At summons from the Crown:
Yet, ere a week had passed away,
One half my work was done,
And safe within my castle lay
Whitehaugh and Mangerton.
I had them all, but only one,
John Elliot of the Park,
As stalwart and as bold a man
As ever rode by dark.
I sought him far, I sought him near,
He baffled all my men;
At last I met him, face to face,
Within the Billhope glen.
V.
Short parley passed between us twain—“Thou art the Warden?” “Ay!
Thou Elliot of the Park?” “I am.”
“Wilt yield thee?” “Come and try!”
47
We tied them to a tree;
The sun was sinking in the west,
And all alone were we.
Out flew the steel, and then began
A sharp and desperate strife;
For Elliot fought to 'scape the cord,
I fought for fame and life.
Ha, ha! were he alive again,
And on this dungeon floor,
What joy, with such a man as that,
To cross the sword once more!
The blows he fetched were stark and strong,
And so were mine, I ween,
Until I cleft his head-piece through,
And stretched him on the green.
“Wilt yield thee now?” “I will not yield,
But an ye promise grace.”
“That must you ask upon your knee,
Before our Sovereign's face.”
Blinded with blood, he struggled up—
“Lord Earl!” he said, “beware!
48
Now follow, if you dare!”
I slipped upon the broken moss;
And in the sheugh we rolled,
Death-grappling, silent, heaving each
Within the other's hold.
He passed above me, and I felt—
Once—twice—his dagger drive;
But mine went deeper through his breast—
I rose, but half alive!
All spun around me—trees and hills—
A mist appeared to rise;
Yet one thing saw I clearly yet
Before my fading eyes:
Not half a rood beyond the burn,
A man lay stiff and stark;
I knew it was my stubborn foe,
John Elliot of the Park.
I strove in vain to sound my horn,
No further strength had I;
And reeling in that lonely glen,
I fell—but not to die.
49
VI.
I wakened in the HermitageFrom out my heavy swound,
Thanks to the leech, who would not cease
From probing of my wound:
And there I lay, for many a day,
Weak, weary, dull, and wan,
With little blood within my veins,
To make me feel like man.
In sooth, it was a heavy time—
I heard the bugles blow,
The horses neigh, the bridles ring,
The soldiers come and go.
I heard the voice of Ormiston,
In short and gruff command,
As outwards from the castle-gate
He led his trooper band.
Then silence; and that hateful sound,
The leech's stealthy tread—
Aha! when I had strength to stir,
How swift the villain fled!
50
The twilight fastening in—
The night, when still I heard the brook
Come roaring down the linn.
Strange! that my memory should recall
Those distant things to view—
That every sound, and sight, and thought,
Should visit me anew!
Have I not heard a hundred times
The winter tempests roar,
Since first they spread that wretched couch
Here, on the dungeon floor?
Have I not heard the ocean-surge
Come bellowing to the strand,
When peals of thunder shook the heaven,
When flashed the levin brand?
The hurleys that might wake the dead,
Pass from me with their rage;
Not so the sounds that reached my bed
In lonely Hermitage.
51
VII.
But O, that day, when first I rose,A cripple, from my lair—
Threw wide the casement, breathed my fill,
Of fresh and wholesome air,
Drank in new life, and felt once more
The pulse's stirring play—
O, madly in my heart I keep
The memory of that day!
I thought to hear the gorcock crow,
Or ouzel whistle shrill,
When, lo! a gallant company
Came riding up the hill:
No banner was displayed on high,
No sign of war was seen,
No armed band, with spear and brand,
Encompassed Scotland's Queen.
She came, on gentle errand bound—
The generous and the free—
She came to cheer her wounded knight,
She came to comfort me.
52
VIII.
She waited not for guard or groom,But passed into the hall;
Around her were the four Maries,
Herself the rose of all.
I never thought that woman's voice
Could thrill my being so,
As when she thanked me for my zeal
In accents soft and low.
I saw the tear within her eye,
When, bending down to me,
She placed her lily hand in mine,
And bade me quit my knee.
“Dear lord,” she said, “'tis woman's right
To comfort when she may;
Then chafe not, if we take by storm
Your Border-keep to-day.
We come not to invade your hall,
Or rudely mar your rest;
Though well I know, at fitter time,
I were a welcome guest.
53
Without my thanks to him
Who paid his service far too well,
At risk of life and limb?
Ah, Bothwell! you have bravely done,
And all my thanks are poor;
Would God that more were bent like you
To make my throne secure!
True heart! strong arm! I cannot place
A chaplet on your brow,
For the old rites of chivalry
Are lost or banished now;
But, trust me, never was a Queen
More debtor to a peer,
Than I, brave Earl, am proud to own,
Before the presence here!
How say you, brother?”
IX.
At the word,I felt a sudden chill;
54
Beside her up the hill.
I marked him not within my hall—
No wonder, for my eye
Was fixed on one bright form alone
Of all that company!
But there he stood, the pulseless man,
The calculating lord,
Swart in the Congregation's garb,
And leaning on his sword.
Upon his lip there was a smile
That almost seemed a sneer;
Softly he spoke, but what he said
Dwelt not within mine ear.
Some phrase it was of mild assent,
Framed in that glossy strain
That statesmen use to hide their thoughts
When honest words were vain;
Some staid and studied compliment,
As soft and cold as snow—
I would not, after desperate fight,
Have thanked a trooper so!
55
Upon the royal train,
Began to falter forth excuse,
Like one who spoke in pain,
Why Darnley came not with the Queen—
How could the fool be there?
Had he not left his Sovereign's Court,
Despite her tears and prayer?—
Left her, with base unmanly threat,
Alone to weep and pine;
That he might lie in harlots' laps,
And hiccup o'er his wine?
X.
Well know I now what Murray meant,But then I did not care—
The sight of Darnley in my hall
Had darkened all the air.
In sooth, I wished them far away,
The Maries, and the rest,
That I might throw me at her feet,
Might ease my bursting breast,—
56
And how I hid my flame,
Till he, the wretched, perjured boy,
Had filled his cup with shame—
Might ask her, of her sovran grace,
To take and keep my vow,
To rule James Hepburn's heart and hand,
Not give him promise now—
One word, one little word of hope
Was all that he would crave,—
Hope? Never hope could rise for me,
Till Darnley filled his grave!
XI.
For then indeed I felt the spellThat turned weak Arran's brain,
That drove the luckless Chastellar
To love and die in vain.
With tenfold power that magic charm
Was stirring in my soul;
Though she had spurned me from her feet,
I must have spoke the whole.
57
And waked at once her scorn,
Than brood o'er passions ill-concealed,
And wait for crimes unborn.
Unborn, but yet, alas! conceived—
Well—well! what recks it now?
A child might weep, and moan, and fret,
That yonder glorious bow,
Which right before me spans the seas,
Should melt in mist and rain:
What is it but a pageantry
That will not come again?
Yea, let it pass with other things,
Old hope, remorse, and fear;
All these are phantoms, dead and gone—
They shall not force a tear!
XII.
Bright was the morn, and fresh the wind,And clear the trumpet's call,
As, strong once more in heart and limb,
I issued from my hall.
58
Were mounted on the sward;
Men who would ride through steel and flame
At signal of their lord.
The knaves! I know they loved me well;
And what a wild acclaim
Rang through the valley, up the glen,
To greet me as I came!
Then spears were raised, and swords were swung,
And banners tossed on high,
In such a storm of wild delight,
As drives men onward to the fight,
For death or victory!
The blood was warm within me then,
And proudly did it bound,
As, clad again in knightly garb,
I wheeled my charger round;
O'er moss and moor, o'er hill and heath,
Right gallantly we sped,
Until we paused, and drew the rein
Hard by the river's head.
59
One lingering look I cast;
I saw it in its strength and pride—
That look, it was the last!
XIII.
Men say that in those northern seas,Far out from human view,
There lies a huge and whirling pit,
As deep as though the globe were split,
To let the waters through;
All round and round for many a mile
Spreads the strong tide's resistless coil;
And if a ship should chance to pass
Within the Maelstrom's sweep,
Nor helm nor sail will then avail
To drive her through the deep.
Headlong she rolls on racing waves,
Still narrowing in her round,
Still drawn towards the awful brim
Of that abyss profound.
60
A lurch, a plunge, a yell,—
And down for ever goes the ship
Into the raging hell!
God wot, I am not fanciful;
But from that fatal day,
When first I leagued with other men,
And left my open way,
No power had I to check my course,
No will to pause or stay.
They knew that I was proud and bold,
And foremost still would go,
Where danger waited in the path,
Nor ever count the foe.
And they had read my secret heart,
And set their cunning snare;
O, had my only thought been love,
They'd not have bound me there!
XIV.
But there was hatred in my soul;And more, that glorious sin,
61
No crime for those who win.
What sceptre ever yet was gained
Without the reddened hand?
Light penance serves to cleanse the stain
From those who rule a land.
Hero, and king, and conqueror—
So ring the changes here,
For those who rise by any art,
No matter what they were!
Wretch, villain, traitor, regicide—
These are the counter-names
For men whom fortune thrusts aside,
However bold their aims.
I would not care for vulgar speech;
But, O, it drives me wild
To think that cold and reckoning knaves
Could sway me like a child!
Tell me no more of guilt and shame!
'Tis worse to be a fool,
To play the subtler traitors' game,
Their partner and their tool!
62
XV.
'Twas in Craigmillar's dusky hallThat first I lent my ear
To that deep tempter, Lethington,
With Murray bending near.
The theme was Darnley and his deeds,
His vain capricious mind,
That neither counsel could control,
Nor sense of honour bind;
His wild outrageous insolence
To men of high degree,
Who, but for Mary's love and grace,
Were better far than he.
All this I heard, and answered not;
But when he came to speak
Of Mary's wrongs, and Mary's woes,
The blood was in my cheek.
He told me of her breaking heart,
Of bitter tears she shed,
Of the sad cry she raised to heaven,
“O God! that I were dead!”—
63
Has power to waste and kill;
Yet in her secret heart, he said,
Queen Mary loved him still.
XVI.
“Loves him?” “Why, ay! Our thought was bent,At first, on Darnley's banishment;
On loosing of the nuptial tie,
As holy Church allows—
An easy thing, for never yet
Was such a faithless spouse!
But when we broke it to the Queen,
She would not deign to hear;
He was the father of her child,
And so to her was dear.
What then is left? While Darnley lives,
He's nothing less than King;
An insect monarch, if you will,
But yet with power to sting.
Why, even you, brave Earl, so high
In honour and in place,
64
Before his Royal Grace!
Nay, chafe not at my open speech,
For others feel the wrong:
Great God! to think that one so weak
Should thus defy the strong!
I speak not only for myself—
I speak Lord Murray's mind;
Your brother Huntley, and Argyle,
They will not lag behind.
You know their strength. Yet more remains;
The banished lords are ours—
Lindsay and Morton, were they here,
Would help us with their powers.
In evil hour, in evil cause,
They lent weak Darnley aid;
They trusted to his lying tongue,
And therefore were betrayed.
XVII.
“Surely 'tis time to stanch the woundsThat vex the land so sore,
65
More closely than of yore;
To curb the wild fanatic mood
That waxes day by day,
And make the surly preachers know
Their duty, to obey!
But for this brainless, frantic fool,
Our course were plain and clear;
If Scotland's nobles back their Queen,
What danger need they fear?
No more will we of foreign league,
Or foreign wedlock hear!
A better husband for the Queen
We'll find among our own;
As fit a champion as the Bruce,
To fill the Scottish throne!
More might I say—but, valiant Earl,
On you our fate depends;
Speak but the word, give but the sign,
I'll answer for our friends!
Scotland is weary of the load
That lies upon her now,
66
Upon our Sovereign's brow.
Here is the stalwart arm we need
To save the State and Queen;
Your own brave blood was freely shed
For Mary, on the green—
But Darnley's!—for one drop of yours
His life were all too mean.”
XVIII.
I've heard that poison-sprinkled flowersAre sweeter in perfume
Than when, untouched by deadly dew,
They opened in their bloom;
I've heard that men, condemned to die,
Have quaffed the seasoned wine
With keener relish than the juice
Of the untampered vine;
I've heard that with the witches' song,
Though harsh and rude it be,
There blends a wild mysterious strain
Of weirdest harmony,
67
Must needs approach the ring,
Where, on the savage Lapland moors,
The demon chorus sing;
And I believe the devil's voice
Sinks deeper in the ear,
Than any whispers sent from heaven,
However soft and clear.
Yes! I was cozened, cheated, led—
No beast more blindly goes
Towards the shambles, than I went
When flattered by my foes!
Flattered—and bribed! Ay, that's the word—
No need to hide it now—
Bribed by the proffer of a crown
To glitter on my brow!
O never let the man of deeds,
Though strong, and bold, and brave,
Though he has shaken thrones like reeds,
Try issue with a knave!
Might is no match for studied craft,
Which makes the best its thrall:
68
The champion needs must fall.
XIX.
Now, were a reverend father here—For such there are, I know,
Good men and true, who preach the word,
Without invoking fire and sword
To lay the temples low—
Men who proclaim their mission, peace;
And count it worse than shame
To shed their doctrines forth like oil
Upon a land in flame—
Had I such ghostly counsellor,
He'd tell me straight to throw
All rancorous feelings from my breast;
To bless my deadliest foe;
To pray for that same Lethington;
To raise my heart to heaven,
And supplicate that Murray's soul
May not depart unshriven!
69
My prayer must also rise:
A proper instrument were I
To lift him to the skies!
The older faith enjoined a mass,
A requiem to be said
Above the bier, or for the soul
Of any foeman dead.
That may be priestcraft—idle sound,
As modern preachers say—
A lie, that neither saint in heaven,
Nor guard on hell, obey:
But to forgive them, while they live;
To breathe a prayer for them,
The traitors who have robbed their Queen
Of state and diadem—
Have shut her in a lonely isle,
To pine, and waste, and die—
A prayer for villains such as these
Were insult to the sky!
70
XX.
I yielded; for the deed proposedWas nothing new or strange.
Though ne'er a Lord in Scotland stirred,
My purpose, oath, and secret word
Had known nor check nor change.
Men feel by instinct, swift as light,
The presence of the foe,
Whom God has marked, in after years,
To strike the mortal blow;
The other, though his brand be sheathed
At banquet or in hall,
Hath a forebodement of the time
When one or both must fall.
That bodement darkened on my soul
When first I set my eye
On Darnley in his trim attire,
All youth, and mirth, and hope, and fire,
A blazoned butterfly.
Methought I saw, like northern seers
When shadowed by the cloud,
71
The phantom of a shroud!
It chilled me then, it haunts me now—
Let this at least be said,
No thought of slaughter crossed my mind
Till David Riccio bled.
Then both my heart and hand were freed;
And often in a dream,
When, through the corridors of sleep
Rang Mary's piercing scream,
The scene would change from Holyrood
To some sequestered glen,
Where I and Darnley met alone,
Apart from other men.
How often have we twain been thrown
In death-lock on the sand,
Eye fixed on eye, breath meeting breath,
And steel in either hand!
And I have wakened, panting sore,
My forehead wet with dew,
More shaken by the phantom strife
Than any that was true!
72
XXI.
They prate of murder—'tis a wordMost odious to the ear,
Condemned alike by God and man:
But peer may meet with peer.
If laggard laws delay redress
For insult or for wrong,
There is no arbiter like steel
So ready and so strong.
Then they contend on equal ground,
And equal arms they wield;
What does the knight or captain more
Who strikes in tented field?
And—by the sun that shines above!—
Had fate ordained it so,
That I and Darnley might have met,
As foeman meets his foe,
One half my life, when life was prized,
Were ransom all too poor
For one bare hour, 'twixt dawn and mirk,
Of grappling on the moor!
73
XXII.
But kings—forsooth, they called him King!—Are cravens now. They claim
Exemption from the knightly rule,
And skulk behind their name.
They dare not, as in Arthur's days,
When chivalry began,
Tell their accuser that he lies,
And meet him, man to man.
They are not dauntless, like the Bruce,
All Europe's foremost knight,
Aye ready with his stalwart hand
To justify his right—
Not valiant, as was royal James,
Who died on Flodden field,
The best and bravest of his race,
Unknowing how to yield.
They sit behind their silken screens,
Fenced closely by their guard,
Their archers and their bandoleers,
Like women kept in ward.
74
Whatever those may be—
Too high was Darnley in his place
To measure swords with me.
I hold the creed that earthly wrong
On earth must be repaid;
And, if the battle be denied,
And law is drugged, and stupified,
Why—vengeance comes in aid!
XXIII.
'Tis strange what freaks the fancy plays,When sense is shut by sleep;
How a vague horror thrills the frame,
And awful sounds and deep
Boom on the ear, as if the earth
Moaned in her central caves
Beneath the weight of buried men,
And stirred them in their graves!
That night as on my bed I lay,
The terror passed on me;
75
It forced my eyes to see
The spectral fire upon the hearth,
The arras' stiffened fold,
The gaunt, mute figures on its web,
In tarnished silk and gold,—
All there—no motion—but a step
Was creaking on the stair;
It made me pant, it made me gasp—
Who was it sought me there?
I saw my sword beside the bed,
I could not stretch my arm—
I could not stir, I could not cry,
I lay beneath a charm.
The door swung slowly on its hinge,
And in a figure came,
In form and face like Lethington,
Most like, yet not the same.
Those were his eyes that glared on mine,
But in them was a gleam
That burned like fire into my brain;
I felt them in my dream.
76
But deeper far than he:—
“Rise up, Lord Bothwell, from thy bed—
Rise up, and follow me!”
XXIV.
I rose, but not as men ariseAt hasty call or loud;
I rose as rigid as a corpse
Swathed in its burial-shroud.
Spellbound I stood upon the floor,
Bereft of power or will,
For well I knew, where'er he went,
That I must follow still.
Then up the stair he led the way,
By winding steps and steep,
Out to the topmost battlement
Of old Craigmillar's keep.
The moon was down, but myriad stars
Were sparkling in the sky—
“Behold!” he said, and raised his hand—
They seemed to wane and die.
77
Deep darkness fell around—
Darkness, and horror as of hell,
And silence most profound.
No wind, no murmur, breath, nor stir,
'Twas utter blankness all,
As though the face of God were hid,
And heaven were wrapped in pall.
XXV.
“Behold again!” the deep voice said,And straight arose a spire
Of lurid, red, and dismal light,
Between me and the mountain height,
A peak of wavering fire:
Above it was a kingly crown—
Then sounded in my ear,
“That glorious prize may be thine own!
Nor only that, but honour, power,
Beauty, and love—a matchless dower—
Dominion far and near!
78
Is tempered like thy steel,
Keen, sharp, and strong, and prompt to strike—
To strike, but not to feel!
That crown was won by valiant Bruce,
He gained it by the blow
That on the slippery altar-steps
Laid the Red Comyn low;
He won and wore it as a king,
And thou may'st win it now!”
XXVI.
I spoke not, but he heard my thought:—“Well done, thou dauntless peer!
I love the brave and venturous will
That knows nor ruth nor fear!
Come, then, I swear by yonder fire—
A sacred oath to me—
That thou shalt sit in Darnley's place
When Darnley dies by thee!
Away that pageant!”—Spire and crown
Shut, like the lightning's leap;
79
Slow-moving, tinging with its flame
The murky clouds and deep;
It shed a glare on Arthur's Seat,
It widened like a shield,
And burst, in thunder and in fire,
Above the Kirk-of-Field.
81
3. PART THIRD.
83
I.
That gaoler hath a savage look—Methinks I spy a change;
For three long years, within this room,
That man has been my only groom,
And yet his voice is strange.
He brings me food, he smoothes my bed,
Obedient to my sign;
But still his moody eye falls down,
And will not answer mine.
I had the art, in former days,
To win, by short familiar phrase,
The rudest hearts alive,—
84
And force them in the battle-tide
Like thorough fiends to strive.
When Warden, I have rode alone,
Without a single spear to back,
The Marches through, although I knew
That spies were hovering on my track;
I've passed into the midst of clans
So fierce and wild, that undismayed
They would have risen, sword in hand,
Had the Queen's standard been displayed;
But never did I meet with one,
Trooper or jackman, groom or knave,
But to the ready fearless call
A frank and fearless answer gave.
II.
This fellow scowls as if in hate.I've marked upon his brow a scar,
More like the hideous galley-brand
Than any wound from broil or war.
85
Far duller than a Lothian boor,
Or there's a plot against my life,
And he's the man to make it sure!
I never hear him at the door,
When fumbling with his heavy keys,
But something warns me to beware,
Reminding me that sounds like these
Were heard by Rothsay, Scotland's heir,
In Falkland's dungeon deep;
When, mad with famine and despair,
He started from his sleep,
To see the butchers usher in
That terrible repast,
The black bull's head, the awful sign
Of death to follow fast!
Slave that he is! I've strength enough
To brain him at a blow:
But Danish laws, they say, are hard;
And scarcely might a man in ward
Deal with his gaoler so.
86
And bare the murderous knife,
Not craven-like nor unavenged
Shall Bothwell yield his life!
III.
Is this indeed a warning voiceThat croaks within my ear?
Or is it guilt that frames the thought,
And fashions it to fear?
I'd have it so—I'll so believe!
These terrors are no more
Than the wild blasts that conscience drives;
And though they shake me sore,
I'll hold them empty, vain, and false,
Nor so demean my place
As tremble at a clown's approach,
Or deign to watch his face!
IV.
Come—I will far away from hence—I cannot tarry here:
87
And quit this dungeon drear!
Man lives not for the single point
That marks the passing time;
He lives in thoughts and memories
Of glory or of crime.
And I will back—and bravely back,
To that tremendous night
When the whole state of Scotland reeled,
And Darnley took his flight,
Borne on the wings of that red blast,
Whose fell volcano-roar
Shook the dark city to its base,
And bade it sleep no more.
That which I did, nor shrunk to do,
I may at least recall;
If spectres rise from out the grave,
I dare to face them all!
V.
High mirth there was in Holyrood,As fitted nuptial scene,
88
The favourite of the Queen.
All Scotland's nobles graced the feast,
And merrily went round the jest,
Though some had secrets in their breast
Enough to mar their sport.
But in a time when all men lied,
Nor trusted neighbour by their side,
Deceit was more than justified;
And, truly, of that Court,
I doubt if there was any there
Who showed in face or mien a care,
Save Mary. But her cheek was pale,
Sad was her smile at jest or tale;
And though she strove to bear her part,
She could not so devise,
But that the anguish of her heart
Came glistening to her eyes.
VI.
Yes, when she looked upon the pairSo fondly placed together there,
89
Beyond their present bliss and joy,
All hope, all trust, all happiness,
All faith without alloy,
I saw her strive to hide her tears—
I am not gentler than my peers;
Nor could I, in the general case,
Divine why women weep and wail,
But gazing on Queen Mary's face,
I saw the cause, and could not fail.
She thought her of the marriage-feast
When Darnley was the chosen groom,
When, trusting to his vows and faith,
She gave herself, in beauty's bloom.
When she was radiant as the bride,
And he was, as the lover, gay;
Alas! there rolled an awful tide
Between that time and this to-day!
Short interval; yet where was he,
The partner of her bed and throne,
The chief of all her chivalry?
A wretched leper, and alone!
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Worn out with base debaucheries,
Her lord once more was nigh;
Broken in body and in mind—
A wretch, who paradise resigned,
To wallow in a sty!
VII.
How she endured him, after allHis foulness and his insolence,
Puzzles my mind—but let it fall!
God gave to woman gentler sense
And sweeter temper than to man;
And she will bear, like penitence,
A load that makes the other ban.
Saint-like she tarried by his side,
And soothed his torment day by day;
And though her grief she could not hide,
No anger did her look betray.
Now, in the midst of mirth and song,
Her loving nature did not yield,
91
That kept her from the Kirk-of-Field.
Early she gave the wonted sign
In token that the feast was done;
Her place was then by Darnley's bed,
Till the late revelry begun.
And I, like her, had counted time,
And might not longer tarry there;
For the wild impulse to a crime
Hath all the urgence of despair.
I knew her errand, and my own!
I knew them both but far too well—
Hers was the thorny path to heaven,
And mine the road that leads to hell!
VIII.
Well I remember how my heartBeat as I oped the postern-door;
My foot upon the threshold stayed,
I scarce had power to venture o'er!
The night was dark; a heavy mist
Came creeping upward from the sea,—
92
And straight they glided up to me.
“Is all prepared?—speak soft and low.”
“All's done; beyond the walls they wait.”
“And Ormiston, where lingers he?
He was not wont to be so late.”
“He tarries for you. But, my Lord,
Some hidden treachery we dread;
Two muffled men are on the watch,
They passed us by with stealthy tread.
No aid has come from Morton yet,
Despite the promise that he gave;
I searched the fields and orchard round,
But all was silent as the grave.”
“Why then, our secret is our own:
Far better that they are not there.
As for the twain you speak of—tush!
Maskers or galliards—never care!
Give me your hand. Why, Hay, 'tis cold!
No flinching now; the die is cast.
Nay, man! be resolute and bold;
To-morrow, and the danger's past.
93
To share in such a venturous deed?
Away then; let's to Ormiston:
Tread softly as you go—take heed!”
IX.
We found him graithed in steel array—
O, often yet I think of him!
The strongest warrior of his day,
A giant both in thewes and limb.
He was my friend, my father's too;
But he is dead—nor only he,
For the black gibbet was the doom
Of every man who stood by me!
Well, well! God sain them—sain them all!
If what they died for was a crime,
Death was atonement: for the rest
I'll answer in the coming time,
As I must answer.
O, often yet I think of him!
The strongest warrior of his day,
A giant both in thewes and limb.
He was my friend, my father's too;
But he is dead—nor only he,
For the black gibbet was the doom
Of every man who stood by me!
Well, well! God sain them—sain them all!
If what they died for was a crime,
Death was atonement: for the rest
I'll answer in the coming time,
As I must answer.
“Ormiston!”
“Welcome, Lord Earl, but not too soon;
I've waited here an hour and more,
And cursed the coming of the moon.
Thanks to the mist, the Borderer's friend,
We shall not see her face to-night;
I never rode a foray yet
When I had comfort from her light.
So Morton has not sent his men?
I'm glad on't, Earl! 'Twere shame, I swear,
That fifty jackmen should be brought
To see one stripling vault in air.”
“Welcome, Lord Earl, but not too soon;
94
And cursed the coming of the moon.
Thanks to the mist, the Borderer's friend,
We shall not see her face to-night;
I never rode a foray yet
When I had comfort from her light.
So Morton has not sent his men?
I'm glad on't, Earl! 'Twere shame, I swear,
That fifty jackmen should be brought
To see one stripling vault in air.”
X.
I stood that night in Darnley's room,Above the chamber charged with death;
At every sound that rose below
There was a catching in my breath.
The aspect of the boy was sad,
For he was weak, and wrung with pain;
Weary he lay upon the bed,
From which he never rose again.
I saw his brow so pale and damp,
I saw his cheek so thin and spare—
95
O wherefore did I seek him there?
He lay, indeed, a dying man,
His minutes numbered, marked, and spanned;
With every ticking of the clock
There fell a priceless grain of sand.
Yet over him an angel bent,
And soothed his pain, and wiped his brow—
So fair, so kind, so innocent,
That all hell's tortures to me now
Could scarce be worse than what I felt
Within that thrice-accursed room!
No heart so hard that will not melt
When love stands weeping o'er the tomb.
O had I hellebore for that—
That one damn'd hour!—I'd count me blest;
So would I banish from my couch
The direst phantom of unrest!
XI.
Time trickled on. I knew 'twas done,When Paris entered with the key—
96
Upon the rack might hail the tread
Of the grim gaoler of the dead,
Yet loathsome was his face to me!
He looked a murderer; not for hate,
Malice, or wrong, or other cause,
By which the devil, or his mate,
Tempt man to spurn his Maker's laws—
But from that hideous appetite,
That lust for blood, that joy in sin,
That shames the instinct of the wolf,
So hellish is the heart within.
Let no man seek to gain his end
By felon means! I never felt
So like a slave, as when he passed,
And touched the key beneath his belt!
For in his glance I read the thought—
“Lord Bothwell! ever from this hour,
Though you be great, and I am nought,
Your life and fame are in my power!”
Ah! shame, that I should now recall
The meaner feelings of that time,
97
That flash from every deed of crime!
Shame, that a face like his should rise
To gibber at me even now,
To scare me with his hateful eyes,
And beckon from the gulf below!
What recks it how a caitiff ends?
If Murray paid him with a cord,
Why, let his spectre haunt the friends
Who did not deem him worth the sword!
No more of that!—The Queen arose,
And we, her nobles, stood aloof
Until she parted from her spouse,
And then we left the fated roof.
XII.
“Back, back to Holyrood! away!”Then torches flashed, and yeomen came,
And round the royal litter closed
A gleaming zone of ruddy flame.
I have slight memory of that walk—
Argyle, I think, spoke earnestly
98
Not any word remains with me.
We came to Holyrood; and soon
A gush of music filled the hall:
The dance was set; the long saloon
Glowed as in time of carnival.
O hateful to me was the sound,
And doubly hateful was the light!
I could not bear to look around,
I longed to plunge into the night.
A low dull boom was in mine ear,
A surging as of waters pent;
And the strained sense refused to hear
The words of passing merriment.
What if that Babel should be stilled,
Smote dumb, by one tremendous knell?
What if the air above were filled
With clanging from the clocks of hell?
Yet waited I till all was o'er;
The bride withdrew, the masque was done:
And as I left the postern-door,
Dully the palace bell struck, One!
99
XIII.
I heard a sermon long ago,Wherein the preacher strove to show
That guiltiness in high or low
Hath the like touch of fear;
And that the knight who sallies forth,
Bent on an action of unworth,
Though he be duke or belted earl,
Feels the same tremor as the churl
Who steals his neighbour's gear.
I held his words for idle talk,
And cast them from my view;
But, in that awful midnight walk,
I felt the man spake true.
XIV.
I heard the echo of my foot,As up the Canongate I sped,
Distinct, as though in close pursuit
Some spy kept even with my tread.
Or did I run, or did I pause,
That sound was ever bickering near;
100
I could not free myself from fear.
I almost stumbled in the dark
Upon a houseless, vagrant hound,
And his sharp snarl, and sudden bark,
Made my heart leap, and pulses bound.
Wherever there were lights on high,
Methought there stood some watcher pale—
Thin shadows seemed to flitter by,
I heard low voices mourn and wail.
And I could swear that once I saw
A phantom gliding by the place
Where then I stood. I shook with awe—
The face was like my mother's face,
When last I saw her on her bier!
Are there such things? or does the dread
Of coming evil craze our fear,
And so bring up the sheeted dead?
I cannot tell. But this I know,
That rather than endure again
Such hideous thoughts, I'd fight the foe,
101
Though I were one, and they were ten!
XV.
I passed beyond the city wall;No light there was in hut or bield,
I scarce could find the narrow lane
That led me to the Kirk-of-Field.
Three men were speeding from the door;
They ran against me in the way—
“Who's that?” “'Tis I!” “Lord Bothwell? Back,
Back, back—my Lord! make no delay!
The doors are locked, the match is lit—
A moment more, and all is done—
Let's 'void the ground!” “He sleeps then sound?”
“Within that house shall waken none!”
Shortly we paused. I strained my sight
To trace the outline of the pile;
But neither moon nor stars gave light,
And so we waited for a while.
102
XVI.
Down came the rain with steady pour,It splashed the pools among our feet;
Each minute seemed in length an hour,
As each went by, yet uncomplete.
“Hell! should it fail, our plot is vain!
Bolton—you have mislaid the light!
Give me the key—I'll fire the train,
Though I be partner of his flight!”
“Stay, stay, my Lord! you shall not go!
'Twere madness now to near the place;
The soldiers' fuses burn but slow;
Abide, abide a little space!
There's time enough”—
XVII.
He said no more,For at the instant flashed the glare,
And with a hoarse infernal roar
A blaze went up and filled the air!
Rafters, and stones, and bodies rose
In one quick gush of blinding flame,
103
Hurtling on every side they came.
Surely the devil tarried near,
To make the blast more fierce and fell,
For never pealed on human ear
So dreadful and so dire a knell.
The heavens took up the earth's dismay,
The thunder bellowed overhead;
Steep called to steep. Away, away!—
Then fear fell on me, and I fled;
For I was dazzled and amazed—
A fire was flashing in my brain—
I hasted like a creature crazed,
Who strives to overrun his pain.
I took the least-frequented road,
But even there arose a hum;
Lights showed in every vile abode,
And far away I heard the drum.
Roused was the city, late so still;
Burghers, half clad, ran hurrying by,
Old crones came forth, and scolded shrill,
Men shouted challenge and reply.
104
My hand was on my dagger's hilt;
Fear is as terrible as wrath,
And vengeance not more fierce than guilt.
I would have stricken to the heart
Whoever should have stopped me then;
None saw me from the palace part,
None saw me enter it again.
Ah! but I heard a whisper pass,
It thrilled me as I reached the door—
“Welcome to thee, the knight that was,
The felon now for evermore!”
105
4. PART FOURTH.
107
I.
Queen Guenever, that lady high,Loved Lancelot of the Lake,
And sweet Isolde was fain to die
For gentle Tristram's sake:
And aye their story charms the ear,
Despite the taint of shame,
And lordlings list, and ladies hear,
Nor ever think to blame.
Yet Arthur was the goodliest knight
Of all the Table Round,
And stout King Marc, in stubborn fight,
Was ever foremost found.
Why is it that the ancient song
Should thus have power to thrill?
108
Should wake emotion still?
Ah! Love, so it be passioned love,
However frail and blind,
Will yet on earth, if not above,
A gentle judgment find.
II.
In the old tales of chivalryThere lies more truth than priests allow;
Valour, and strength, and courtesy,
Have power to make the haughtiest bow.
The knight who by his single arm
Could free a lady from duresse,
And break the fell magician's charm,
Had claim upon her loveliness:
Although the daughter of a king,
She might not spurn his homage fair;
And proud was she in listed ring,
To see him with her colours there.
109
A slave in body, racked in soul!—
My blazon has been long erased,
My name struck off the knightly roll!
But what of that? The time has been
When I was highest of the high—
Yea, was the husband of a Queen;
And so they shall not pass me by.
Good men and brave may be forgot,
The tomb may hide their dust and fame,
But while there breathes on earth a Scot,
He'll hear, at least, of Bothwell's name!
III.
Yet, when the awful deed was done,And Mary's burst of grief was by,
Of all who stood around the throne,
Was none in closer trust than I.
My front was calm, my speech was clear,
I did not overact my part,
110
For one I never loved at heart:
Intent I seemed to find and trace
The bloodly authors of the crime;
But rumour hath a headlong pace,
And would not tarry for my time.
Whispers arose, not loud, but strong,
That I was privy to the deed;
The rabble, when I passed along,
Regarded me with sullen heed;
A madman paced the streets by night,
Invoking vengeance from on high,
Till the scared women, in affright,
Believed they heard a spirit cry.
Each Sabbath-day the pulpits rung
With texts on murder ill-concealed,
And pictures on the Cross were hung
Of him who died at Kirk-of-Field.
IV.
My name was bruited.—Well I knowWho set the bloodhounds on my track;
111
Dared not, as then, to cheer the pack.
Had I been such a knave as he,
I might at once have eased my breath,
And made my name for ever free,
By charging him with Darnley's death.
Ay, without falsehood in my heart!
For, when I went at break of day,
To search the ruins, far apart
The unscathed corpse of Darnley lay.
No mark of fire was on the dead,
Unsinged his cloak of velvet fine;
If he were murdered as he fled,
It was not done by me or mine!
And none save Douglas knew the hour
When the old roof should whirl in air;
He swore to aid me with his power—
It may be that his men were there.
V.
But rumour is a reckless fire,Which, kindled once, is sure to spread,
112
Spares not the living or the dead.
An ember dropped upon the waste,
Swells to a blaze that wraps the hill,
And onward rush the flames in haste,
Ascending, striding, bickering still;
They reach the wood, they spare it not,—
The forest roars and crashes down,—
The red surge breaks on tower and cot,
Homestead and village, church and town.
And rumour did not spare a name
That should have been from tarnish free;
No saint in heaven was less to blame
For wretched Darnley's death than she!
Fling forth a lie amongst the crowd,
Let but the preachers vouch 'tis true—
And innocence may buy her shroud,
And guilt go forth in garments new!
They said she did not mourn him long—
What cause had she to mourn at all?
His life had been a course of wrong,
A hideous shadow on her wall.
113
VI.
Why mourn? Because the man was deadWho brought his ruffians to her room,
And held her struggling, while they shed
The life-blood of her favourite groom?
Who trafficked with her darkest foes,
Heaped insult on her and despite,
Fled from the Court to herd with those
Whose baseness was his foul delight?
Why, I have heard old Knox protest,
Men should not mourn for those they love,
Since earthly mourning is, at best,
Defiance to the will above.
He cited David, who arose
And washed his face and tasted bread,
Things he omitted, in his woes,
Until he knew his child was dead.
And so, because in quietness
Her secret soul she did possess,
Because she did not feign despair,
Nor beat her breast, nor rend her hair,
Nor give superfluous sorrow breath—
114
Or frantic show of grief was made,
They taxed her with her husband's death!
VII.
Ha, ha! Their rancour was my shield,A buckler between me and shame;
For what belief could Mary yield
To miscreants who abused her name?
She, in her perfect innocence,
Despised the foul insulting lie,
That, without semblance of pretence,
Had swollen into a common cry.
They dared to charge her—her, their Queen—
With guilt so monstrous of its kind,
That, granting she had only been
In knowledge of the deed designed,
The gates of heaven had shut for aye
Against her penitence and prayer,
Angels had loathed her in their sky,
And left her to her soul's despair!
115
VIII.
Yea, men had loathed her! I myself—The devil's bondsman, though alive,
Whom not for charity nor pelf
The meanest priest that crawls would shrive—
I would not, though she brought a crown,
Have ta'en a murderess to my bed;
The Borgia won such wide renown
As well might warn a pillowed head!—
But, fie on me, to mix the name
Of one so tainted and so vile,
With hers, the pure and spotless Dame
Who tarries in Lochleven's isle!
Her noble soul, that knew no taint,
Was far too trusting and sincere;
She was, in purity, the saint,
With all that makes the woman dear.
And when I pass before the Throne,
To reckon for my deeds on earth;
When every secret crime is known,
And every thought that gave them birth;
116
What she, in error, did for me;
And, though a gulf lie broad between,
I'll vouch her, as an angel, free!
IX.
Yet who accused me? Not my peers;They, one and all, were dumb as death—
'Twere shame to think that doubts or fears
Could make them draw a bated breath!
If some were mingled in the plot,
And far too well the secret knew,
Yet more there were who loved me not,
Brave lords and valiant, tried and true.
Boyd—Seton—Herries—none stood forth,
Nor any knight of fame and worth;
Only old Lennox, half distraught
With sorrow for his slaughtered son,
Gave utterance to the people's thought,
And craved that justice should be done.
117
To bide the sentence of the law;
Its terrors did not mar my rest,
Nor make me thrill with guilty awe.
For Morton stood beside me then,
And Lethington was with me too,
And even Murray sent his men,
To witness that my cause was true.
Right hastily the ermined lords
Pronounced me innocent and free:
And well they might! Four thousand swords
Were there to make defence for me!
Then, hardier yet, I caused proclaim—
If any dared impeach my name,
Or charge me with a murder stain
Upon my hand, for Darnley slain,
So that he were of like degree,
He had my challenge, fair and free—
In guarded lists, or open heath,
I'd meet him as a knight,
And do stark battle to the death—
Might God defend the right!
118
X.
O liar that I was, and mad,In such wild manner to blaspheme!
Not mine the faith that Morton had,
Who held salvation but a dream.
Never I doubted, from the first,
The judgment of a God on high;
And if I be by Him accursed,
I know what waits me when I die.
I will not stupify my soul—
Wretch as I am—with false belief;
Or think that death must close the whole
Long weary tale of shame and grief.
How could I hope to win in fight—
The utterer of so foul a prayer?
How 'scape the overwhelming might
I had invoked to crush me there?
XI.
Still, no one came to lift my gage;The law declared me free from taint.
119
I let them chafe without restraint.
The burghers might believe their tale,
But dared not mutter it again—
Too many spears from Liddesdale
Were daily moving in my train.
On slight pretext the borderer draws,
But not so quickly sheathes his brand,
And swords can tame as well as laws,
They're ever readier to the hand.
Enough for me that I was clear;
I thought to let the storm pass by;
For railing soon fatigues the ear,
When no one will vouchsafe reply.
XII.
And I had much to meditate.Darnley no longer stopped my way;
The Queen was free to choose a mate,
I must not, like a fool, delay.
For princes, ay, and kings would come
To sue for favour from her eyes,
120
Would work for such a glorious prize.
Then how could I, a simple peer,
Whose name was scarce in Europe known,
Presume to mix or interfere,
With royal tenders for a throne?
Love levels all! That faith had I;
Yea, and by heaven, true love was mine,
Though it was marred by villany,
As sullied water tainteth wine!
I knew the legend framed of old,
And ever to my heart it came—
He must be desperate and bold
Who seeks to win a royal dame!
XIII.
Yet all unequal was our lot:She was a widow, I was wed—
Poor Lady Jane! I loved her not,
Yet never wished her with the dead.
She was a vixen from her birth,
Ready with tears, of temper keen,
121
She never waked a touch of spleen.
Divorce was easy. She and I,
In mutual weariness, could part,
Without a ceremonial sigh,
Or fiction of an aching heart.
But Mary—how would she receive
A suit so strange and bold as mine?
Had I but ventured to believe
That worship at so fair a shrine,
So mutely offered and so long,
Could not, at least, unnoticed be,
My courage then had been more strong,
My speech more unrestrained and free.
XIV.
Often I strove to speak my mind,As often did I swerve aside;
For, though her eyes were ever kind,
She never lost her queenly pride.
Her nature was too great and high
To listen to a lover's vows,
122
She gave to her departed spouse.
And therefore, in uncertain mood,
Aimless, perplext, I lingered on,
Until one day, at Holyrood,
My path was crossed by Lethington.
He met me with a meaning smile
That almost deepened to a sneer;
I knew the man was steeped in wile,
And yet I thought his words sincere.
XV.
“Lord Earl,” he said, “in days of old,As I have heard the story told,
There reigned a king in Lydian land,
Who had a beauteous wife;
But kings right seldom understand
The worth of that which they possess,
And this weak monarch's shamelessness
Cost him his crown and life.
I need not now the tale rehearse,
123
This only shall I say,
That he who 'venged the lady's wrong
Was far too wise to tarry long,
Before he claimed the sway.”
XVI.
“You speak in riddles!” “Surely no:Methinks my meaning should be clear:
Look but around—where breathes the foe
Whose malice you have cause to fear?”
“Ay, but the Queen! 'Twere doubly base
For me to press, as yet, my claim;
To urge her to her own disgrace,
And taint her honour and her fame.
I stand suspected; even here
Men deem me guilty of the sin;
And though their tongues are bound by fear,
I know what thoughts they keep within.
England abhors me. England's Queen
Detests the man she could not buy:
124
Were I a caitiff and a spy!
Now—say that I advanced my suit,
And Mary yielded me her hand,
Would not rebellion start to foot,
And treason rage throughout the land?
Her foes could find no better proof
Of all that slander dares to say,
And honest men would stand aloof,
And friends draw from her in dismay!”
XVII.
“Yea—does your foresight reach so far?Men deemed, Lord Bothwell, you were born
Beneath a rash and fiery star
That ever prompted you to scorn
All prudent counsel. You have worn
Right well the mask; but now I see,
You are as wise in policy
As swift in action—list to me.
How stand you at the present hour?
The first in place, the first in power!
125
Hath such a wide and strong command.
Singly you might defy them all,
If they were leagued to work your fall;
And yet the first and greatest Lords
Are pledged your honour to maintain,
And they are ready with their swords
To prove they did not swear in vain.
What you have risked for them they know;
All were approvers of the deed;
Nor is there one so mean and low
As leave you in the hour of need,—
So it is now; but who dare say
To-morrow shall be like to-day?
A common danger keeps us bound,
That past, the league will sunder quite,
New foes will rise as from the ground,
New perils hover into sight.
Oh, then take heed, lest, being strong,
You count too much upon your power;
Occasion never proffers long,
It comes and passes in an hour!”
126
XVIII.
“Truce with thy proverbs, man! they fillWith sound, and nothing else, mine ear—
Speak of the Queen, her royal will
Must surely count for something here?”
“My Lord—this Scottish crown of ours,
August and ancient though it be,
Doth yet confer but stinted powers,
And is but royal in degree.
He whom the nobles hail as king
Becomes the foremost of them all;
He passes first in listed ring,
In battle, banquet, bower, or hall.
He leads our armies to the field,
The laws are his to guard and wield;
And yet 'tis widely known,
Without the concert of his peers,
No Scottish king, these thousand years,
Hath ever kept the throne.
Is it not time for concert now?
The crown is on a woman's brow
127
Heap insults on her royal head—
She stands alone without a mate
On whom her arm might lean—
Why sleep the guardians of the State?
Their voice is strong, their powers are great;
Let them direct the Queen!”
XIX.
“Thanks, Maitland, thanks! I see thy aim—By heaven, it shall be done!
If Scotland's peers support my claim,
The prize is almost won!
Ay, and who dare impeach their choice?
Let me but gain the nobles' voice!
About it straight! Let Morton sign,
Huntley and Cassilis, Crawford too—
Their fortunes are compact with mine;
When they stand forward, not a few
For love, or dread, or shame will join.
Ruthven will follow, nothing loth:
Errol, Argyle—I have them both.
128
Each reverend name is worth a score—
Place old St Andrews in the van,
He'll bring us Orkney, Ross, and more.
Not my advancement, friend, alone
Depends on what we do:
If Bothwell ever mounts the throne,
Why, thou shalt prosper too!”
XX.
They gave it me—that fatal Band;I held their honour in my hand.
Lords, whose great names were widely known
Ere Malcolm Canmore filled the throne;
Chieftains, who ruled their broad domains
As freely as a monarch reigns,
Around whose banners reared on high
Would flock our Scottish chivalry;
Grave prelates, who, in former days,
Before the Church was rent in twain,
Had won the people's worthless praise,
And bore the crozier not in vain—
129
They, one and all, were bound to me!
No miser ever clutched his gold
More keenly than did I the scroll;
I conned it over, fold by fold,
I weighed each name upon the roll.
XXI.
“And now,” thought I, “though fortune change,My place is firm, my seat secure;
Yea, let her, like a falcon, range
In wilful flight o'er moss and moor!
Nothing, I feel, can shake me now;
The strength of Scotland backs my claim.
'Tis but the loosing of a vow,
A parting from a wearied dame;
A wooing, neither hard nor long,
For Mary cannot but comply;
And then—the child was never strong,
Sickness may smite him, and he'll die—
Infants die easy—and I reign!
Ha, ha! Elizabeth may fret,
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I'll make them know me better yet!
For let them dare to disallow
My claim of right—and, by my head,
Before a year goes by, they'll trow
That Bruce has risen from the dead!”
XXII.
There was a knocking. “'Sdeath! what foolComes here to interrupt me now?
Ha! Ormiston, my trusty friend—
Welcome,—but why that gloomy brow?
Be joyful, man!—all's done, all's sure.”—
“What's done? you're not her husband yet?”
“No—but my claim is made secure;
This Band, to which the Lords have set
Their names and seals”—“Is like the rest,
Parchment and ink—I know them well—
Good faith hath been a stranger guest
Since Scottish nobles learned to spell.
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This Mary's mother. I have seen
The letters written by her hand,
Far clearer than that doubtful Band,
With promise, oath, and token too.
He deemed himself secure, like you;
Yet died he in a foreign land.
O, never rest your faith on words;
Pens are for priests; trust nought but swords!
Clerks torture language, to conceal
Their inward thoughts, and cheat the eye;
There's honesty in naked steel,
It rings too sharply for a lie!”
XXIII.
“A cheerful counsellor art thou!What next? If nothing worse portend,
Relax the rigour of thy brow,
And speak to me as friend with friend.
Why—still thou lookest stern and strange—
What is it that thou hast to tell?”
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Kirkaldy, whom we know full well
To be as resolute a knight
As lives within this Scottish land—
No better ever ruled a fight,
No wiser ever held command—
Accuses you in open day
Of Darnley's murder!” “Dares he so?
And was there none his tongue to stay,
No hand to deal a dagger-blow?”
XXIV.
“On even field I would not fearTo meet Kirkaldy spear to spear;
But shame it were to touch his life
Through vassal's dirk or yeoman's knife!
No idle pampered stripling he—
A man of mark and dignity!
He can array, at trumpet-call,
The Leslies and the Melvilles all;
Though but a knight of slender strain,
No Lord can summon such a train.
133
Or scowl with angry brow,
When peers and bishops proudly ride,
To him will bend and bow.
Ay, and the preachers, who detest
Whatever soldiers love the best,
They, who will rail you by the hour,
Submit to him and own his power:
He guides their council, wields their will,
He bids them clamour or be still;
Of evil omen is the day
That brings Kirkaldy to the fray!”
XXV.
“So then, that champion of misruleAspires to measure swords with me?
He comes too late! I were a fool
To match with one of his degree.
My challenge stood unanswered long,
He might have offered when 'twas new;
I'll not be baited by the throng,
And bide his knightship's leisure too!”
134
XXVI.
“Despise him not; his plans are laid,His friends are numbered and arrayed;
On you alone the taint they throw.
Nay, hear me out!—'Tis childish now
To wince at words—You bear the charge,
Whilst saintly Morton walks at large;
He's safe, whoever may prevail,
Within the Congregation's pale.
Some scapegoat truly there must be,
To carry sin, and you are he!
They have brave watchwords! First, ‘The Queen’—
They're wondrous loyal now, I swear—
And next, ‘The Prince;’ for 'tis foreseen
His babyhood may lack some care.
The sire's removed, the son survives,
You're not his foster-father yet;
There's peril, sir, for infant lives,
When crowns are on their cradles set!
So say the people.”
135
XXVII.
“Let them prate!The sordid knaves may hoot and groan;
Not theirs to overrule my fate,
Or bar my passage to the throne!
Let twenty knights of greater worth
Than this Kirkaldy venture forth,
Of what avail would be their stand
Against the nobles of the land?
I tell thee, man, their names are here;
They urge my marriage with the Queen.”
“Hath she consented?” “No—'tis clear
Some little space must intervene:
She has not thrown her weeds aside.”
“She knows your purpose?” “She may guess.”
“What! do you count upon a bride
Before her lips have answered, Yes?
Never spoke I with courtly dame,
But women are throughout the same;
The lowest lass in Teviotdale
That goes a-milking with her pail,
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And will not yield them at command.
Lovers must bend, and fawn, and sue
To maids of high or low degree;
The wooing may be rough, 'tis true,
Yet, nathless, wooing there must be.
That parchment no assurance gives—
I see not how it aids your aim.
You are not free: your Countess lives;
She may refuse to waive her claim.
Come now—be frank with me, my Lord!
Something of statesman's craft I know—
Who brought you this? for, by my word,
I hold him less your friend than foe!”
XXVIII.
“'Twas Lethington!” “Why, he's in leagueWith Morton and Kirkaldy too!
The busiest spider of intrigue
That ever simple Scotland knew!
This web is of his weaving, then?
We'll burst it yet! The Queen's away?”
137
To Stirling Castle yesterday.”
“When comes she back?” “To-morrow.” “Good!
Now listen—here, in Holyrood,
You cannot gain the Queen's consent;
Within a week, the storm, now pent,
Will break in fury on your head.
The Commons, by Kirkaldy led,
Will thunder at the palace gate;
And, were you innocent as Knox,
When captured at St Andrews rocks,
Your friends must leave you to your fate.
XXIX.
“Be ruled by me—forestall the time!Surprise is fair in love or war;
A little urging is no crime—
Take Mary with you to Dunbar!
Thanks to the knave who brought me word,
Kirkaldy set us on our guard:
We have a thousand horsemen here,
From Crichton and from Teviotdale,
138
All ready, armed with jack and spear.
Around Dunbar the waters sweep;
Meet place for meditation lone,
When he who owns the castle-keep
Is host and lover, both in one!
Take, too, the Band; it may suffice
To still some doubts, should such arise
'Twere pity that her Royal Grace
Saw not that dutiful demand!—
Now, I have told you all the case;
Lord Bothwell, will you grasp my hand?
Nay, never shrink—'tis now too late;
To-morrow must the deed be done;
You'll find me at the western gate,
With all our men equipped, by one.
I know the road; we'll meet them there,
Then hey o'er meadow, heath, and hill!
Come now, be brave!—All bids us fair—
Wilt thou do this?” “Your hand—I will!”
139
5. PART FIFTH.
141
I.
Ascension morn! I hear the bellsRing from the village far away:
How solemnly that music tells
The mystic story of the day!
Fainter and fainter come the chimes,
As though they melted into air,
Like voices of the ancient times,
Like echoes of ascending prayer!
So sweet and gentle sound they yet,
That I, who never bend the knee,
Can listen on, and half forget
That heaven's bright door is shut for me.
Ring on, ye bells! Let others throng
Before the blessed rood to pray;
142
That celebrates this holy day.
Ring on for them! I hear you well,
But cannot lift my thoughts on high;
The dreary mists that rise from hell
Come thick between me and the sky!
II.
O God, I wish that I were dead!That I had died long, long ago,
With but such sin upon my head
As men of dull temptations know!
We cleave to life, yet never deem
That life may be a curse and snare—
Far better with the dead to dream,
Than wake in torture and despair.
O yes, I can be humble now!
Sometimes my mood is stern and wild,
Yet often I must stoop my brow,
And weep as weakly as a child.
Defiance burns within me yet,
But none are near me to defy;
143
Or cheat my conscience with a lie.
I have shed blood, and rued it sore,
Because it was not knightly done;
Yet were that all my guilt—no more—
It well might brook comparison
With deeds that, in the preachers' eyes,
Appear a righteous sacrifice.
They own no saints; else, well I ween,
A saint had Norman Leslie been:
Norman, that fiery youth and bold,
Who forced his way to Beatoun's hold,
And saw, unmoved, the murderer's knife
Let out the Primate's throbbing life.
Though private feud, not holy zeal,
Set Norman forward with his steel,
Yet his was styled a godly deed,
Because he made a bishop bleed.
Witchcraft has charms to daze the sight;
Strange glamour has religion too:
It makes the wrong appear the right,
The false as worthy as the true!
144
In case of pious need, to nine;
Murder no more provokes a frown,
'Tis justified by texts divine!
III.
Away, away with thoughts like these!Take them, ye winds, and whelm them, seas!
For other memories haunt me. Yes;
As greater billows drown the less,
So one dark surge within my breast
Roars up, and overwhelms the rest.
It might be foul, it might be wrong
To slay the man I hated long;
But O, what mercy from above
Can he entreat who strikes at love?
IV.
Methinks I can recall the scene,That bright and sunny day;
145
Like giant warders lay.
Upon the bursting woods below
The pleasant sunbeams fell;
Far off, one streak of lazy snow
Yet lingered in a dell.
The westlin' winds blew soft and sweet,
The meads were fair to see;
Yet went I not the spring to greet
Beneath the trysting-tree.
V.
For blades were glistening in the light,And morions flashing clear:
A thousand men in armour bright
Were there with sword and spear.
A thousand men as brave and stout
As ever faced a foe,
Or stemmed the roaring battle-rout
When fiercest in its flow.
146
And faint their welcome then:—
“Why, Ormiston! what sullen fiend
Hath so possessed the men?
They look like images in steel,
Not vassals prompt and true:
Think you they know or guess the work,
And will they bear us through?”
VI.
“Fear not for that! No single knaveWill fail you at your need;
Were it to gallows or to grave,
They'd follow where I lead.
Give but the signal for the south,
Or 'gainst the townsmen here,
And, fast enough, from every mouth
Will burst a deafening cheer!
Nothing need they but action, sir,
To make them fierce and fain:
147
'Twas pity to refrain!
A blow or two on yonder crew
Right well had been bestowed!
But more anon: the day wears on;
'Tis time to take the road.
Hay, bid the trumpets sound the march;
Go, Bolton, to the van;
Young Niddrie follows with the rear;
Set forward, every man!”
VII.
“But what hath chanced? The streets are clear;I saw no gathering throng:
No sound of tumult reached my ear,
Now, as I passed along.”
“O, sir! the Edinburgh folk are wise;
They know the value of disguise!
Short warning give they of the fray,
For they are hounds that do not bay
Until they tear you down;
148
Abroad, than in the town.
I knew that danger was at hand,
But deemed it not so nigh;
Your chance was lost, despite the Band,
Had this one day gone by!
Kirkaldy's friends have laid their plot:
They know our purpose well.
You start—thank God, they ventured not
To sound St Giles's bell!
Then had the craftsmen rushed to arms;
And ill it were to strive,
With hampered men, against the swarms
Lodged in yon waspish hive!
Had Morton joined them with his might,
Or message come from Mar,
Why, you and I this self-same night
Had lodged within Dunbar;
Not, as I trust, with royal guest,
At will to entertain,
But with some score of beaten rogues,
Too scared to draw the rein.
149
If roused within their den;
And truly, when it comes to blows,
They bear themselves like men!
VIII.
“Last night they tried our troopers' faith;And many a can of ale
Was emptied to Queen Mary's health
By lads of Liddesdale.
Frankly the burghers played the host;
And all was merry game,
Till one gruff elder of the Kirk
Waxed wrathful at your name.
Short say was his and incomplete,
A Jardine smote him down;
Then, 'midst the brawl, arose the call
Of ‘Douglas for the town!’
That cry was ready and designed,
It rung through street, and pealed through wynd,
But Morton was not there.
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And guard against the stab behind
When Douglas speaks you fair!
Right glad was I from yonder pack
Our men unscathed to bring;
And, when we ride in triumph back,
Lord Earl, I'll hail thee King!
IX.
“And, by my soul, the hour has come!No doubt or tarrying now!
Mark yonder drifting cloud of dust
Above the orchard row.
Some thirty spears, not more, are there;
I reckon by their sheen:
And yonder rides a knight in mail—
'Tis Huntley with the Queen!
Ho, sound a halt! Go forward you;
I'll follow with my band:
Now, Bothwell, to yourself be true—
The crown is in your hand!”
151
X.
True to myself? False—false as hell,And false to all beside!
Yet what I did was acted well:
The devil was my guide.
For question left I little space;
I spurred across the plain:
I met Queen Mary, face to face,
And took her palfrey's rein.
XI.
“Pardon, my liege, if hot with hasteI fail in homage due!
Too precious is the time to waste;
My care is all for you.
Madam! rebellion rages wide
Within yon luckless town:
The craftsmen in tumultuous tide
To Holyrood sweep down!
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‘No mass—no mumbled prayer!
Hale forth the priests, and let them die:
Down, down with rank Idolatry!
Smite, burn, and do not spare!’
Nay, Madam—never look so pale—
Your friends are safe. I did not fail
To leave a trusty band,
Who, if they cannot clear the street,
Are strong enough for safe retreat;
And this their strict command—
To make at least the passage good
Of all your train from Holyrood,
To Crichton, my ancestral home,
Where the false villains dare not come.
But you, our Lady and our Queen—
Your safety is my care:
One royal fortress yet remains,
We'll bring you bravely there.
I hold your castle of Dunbar,
The strongest keep equipped for war
Within the Lothians wide:
153
There shall you rest in peace, secure—
Say, Madam, will you ride?
Short is the space for parley now,
The road beset may be;
But though we hew our passage through,
We'll bear your Highness free!
Come, Huntley! we await your word:
What better can be done?
Far is the ride; but yet, my Lord,
There's nearer shelter none.
Safe is that hold from storm or siege,
However wide the war—
'Tis well resolved! My gracious liege,
This night we reach Dunbar.”
XII.
O wretch, to fashion such a lie!O slave, to ruin one so fair!
O false to faith and chivalry!
O villain, well may I despair!
154
That prayer and penitence are vain;
Since hope is dead for me below,
And hell can give no ghastlier pain?
Beneath the flags that, day by day,
Return dull echoes to my tread,
A grave is hollowed in the clay;
It waits the coming of the dead:
A grave apart, a grave unknown,
A grave of solitude and shame,
Whereon shall lie no sculptured stone
With legend of a warrior's name.
O would it yawn to take me in,
And bind me, soul and body, down!
O could it hide me and my sin,
When the great trumpet-blast is blown!
O might one guilty form remain
Unsummoned to that awful crowd,
When all the chiefs of Bothwell's strain
Shall rise from sepulchre and shroud!
How could I meet their stony stare—
How could I see my father's face—
155
The foul Iscariot of my race?
XIII.
I sought her presence in the hall—Not as a knight prepared to woo,
But like a faltering criminal
Who knows not what to say or do.
I told the story once again
Of wide rebellion in the land,
Of clamour raised against her reign,
Of treason by the preachers planned.
I told her that the English Queen
Was bent to drive her from the throne,
That still Elizabeth's aim had been
To rule in Britain's isle, alone.
“Madam,” I said, “though great her power,
Trust me, that woman's craft is vain;
Nor any town, nor any tower,
Shall she usurp on Scottish plain.
Though knaves and hypocrites combine,
Though the old faith be trampled down,
156
And perish ere they wrong the Crown!
XIV.
“But these are not the days of yore,When duty was a sacred thing,
When loyal hearts the people bore,
And priests were subject to the king.
Not now, upon the Sabbath-day,
Are men exhorted to obey,
Nor do they meet to kneel and pray.
Savage and wild the preacher stands,
And imprecates with lifted hands
The wrath of Heaven upon the head
Of all who differ from his creed.
Nor only that; the pulpit rings
With lying tales of priests and kings.
Bold in his self-commissioned cause,
The railing rebel spurns the laws,
And bids his hearers bare the sword,
Against their rulers, for the Lord!
157
Sighed out his life in Falkland tower,
How many churches, wrapped in flames,
Have witnessed to the spoilers' power!
Yea, even in Iona's isle,
That early Bethlehem of the west,
Where, by Columba's stately pile,
The bones of Scotland's monarchs rest,
Such deeds were done, by christened men,
As well might shame the Saracen.
For sacrilegious hands were there
The dead from out their graves to tear,
And scatter to the winds abroad
The relics of the saints of God!
XV.
“And deem not that their rage has passed—It lives, it burns within them still;
Misrule and anarchy will last
While those wild preachers have their will.
This new rebellion shows their mood;
The throne must, like the altar, down:
158
Are eager to profane the Crown!
XVI.
“But we can stay them in their course;Force must be met, and fought by force!
The nobles who allowed their aid
To help the growing power,
Shrink from the monster they have made,
Insatiate to devour.
Ready are they with heart and hand
To crush rebellion in the land;
All private quarrel to forego,
And league against the common foe.
Such, Lady, is their full intent,
And this the token they have sent.
Behold their names—recorded here
Are those of prelate, statesman, peer.
The heart of Scotland and its might
In this great bond of love unite;
And never more shall treason dare
159
Against a brotherhood so fair!
XVII.
“But, Madam, something they require—O that I might from speech refrain!
Scarce can I utter their desire,
Or speak a prayer that may be vain!
Yet must I do it. Lady! see—
With throbbing heart and bended knee,
Thus low before your royal seat
I pour my homage at your feet!
O, by the heaven that spreads above,
By all that man holds fond and dear!
I had not dared to tell my love,
Or breathe that secret in your ear!
But for the urgence of the time,
When silence almost is a crime—
But for the danger to the throne,
James Hepburn to his grave had gone,
And never knelt as now!
Nay, gracious Madam—do not rise;
160
That shows upon your brow!
Were I by wild ambition stirred,
Or moved by selfish aim,
Then might you spurn my suit preferred,
Bid me begone, condemned, unheard,
And ever loathe my name.
Nay more—for frankly will I speak—
The marriage bonds I wear, though weak,
Would still have tied my tongue;
Nor from my heart had friend or priest,
While life yet ebbed within my breast,
This free confession wrung!”
XVIII.
Silent and still, though pale as death,Queen Mary kept her throne,
But for the heaving of her breath,
She seemed of marble stone.
Scarce by a gesture did she show
What thoughts were rushing by.
O noblest work of God!—how low,
161
With every word a lie!
“And can it be,” at length she said,
“That Bothwell has his Queen betrayed?
Bothwell, my first and foremost knight—
Bothwell, whose faith I deemed more bright,
More pure than any spotless gem
That glitters in my diadem?
Great God! what guilt of me or mine
Hath thus provoked thy wrath divine?
Weary, though short, has been my life;
For dangers, sickness, murders, strife,
All the worst woes that man can fear,
Have thickened round me year by year.
The smiles of love I scarce had seen
Ere death removed them from my view;
My realm had scarce received its Queen
Ere treason's hideous trumpet blew.
They whom I sought to make my friends,
My very kin, proved false to me;
And now before me Bothwell bends
In falsehood, not in faith, the knee!
162
To wrong a woman in her need,
When neither help nor friends were nigh,
And snare her with an odious lie?
False was the tale that brought me here,
False even as the love you feign;
And doubtless now you hope, through fear,
Your Queen and Mistress to restrain!”
XIX.
Stung to the quick, but bolder far,As men detected ever are,
I answered her again—
“Madam! if I have erred through love,
I look for pardon from above,
And shall not look in vain.
True love is prompt, and will not wait
Till chance or hazard ope the gate.
Not mine the arts that gallants own
Who glide and prattle round the throne!
A soldier I, unused to sue,
Or fawn as courtly minions do.
163
My sword is sharp and keen;
And never have I spared my blood
In service of my Queen.
Why, Madam, should you speak of fear?
I used no force to bring you here.
This castle is a royal hold;
Above, upon the turret high,
The Ruddy Lion ramps in gold,
True sign of Scotland's majesty.
Safe as in Holyrood you bide
With friends around you and beside,
And here you keep your state.
What if I longed to speak my mind,
To tell you what the peers designed—
To plead my cause, however rude,
Where no rash meddler might intrude—
Was that a crime so great?
Ah, Madam, be not so unkind!
If love is hasty, it is blind,
And will not bear to wait.”
164
XX.
Then rose she up; and on her browWas stamped the Stuart frown:—
“By all the saints in heaven, I trow
This man would bear me down!
He prates of love, as if my hand
Were but a sworder's prize,
That any ruffian in the land
Might challenge or despise!
What mad ambition prompts you, sir,
To utter this to me?
What word of mine has raised your hopes
In such a wild degree?
I gave you trust, because I deemed
Your honour free from stain;
I raised you to the highest place
That subject could attain,
Because I thought you brave and true,
And now, forsooth, you dare to woo!
Are these your thanks for all my grace,
Is this your knightly vow?
165
There's falsehood on your brow!”
XXI.
Swift as the adder rears its headWhen trampled by the shepherd's tread,
Sprang up my pride; for word of scorn
By me was never tamely borne.
Like liquid fire through every vein
The blood rushed burning to my brain;
All the worst passions of my soul
Broke out at once beyond control.
No longer did I feign to woo;
Pity, remorse, away I threw,
And, desperate that my aim was seen,
I, as a rebel, faced my Queen!
XXII.
“Madam! I sought in gentle guiseTo win your royal ear;
166
In words unblent with courtesies
My message shall you hear.
I speak not for myself alone;
But for the noblest near your throne.
Deeply the Lords of Scotland mourn
The cause of this your grief;
The fate which left their Queen forlorn,
And took away their chief.
But sorrow, though it wring the heart,
Has limits to its range;
And duty must resume its part,
Since even empires change.
Therefore they pray you, of your grace,
To put aside the garb of dule,
And choose some mate of Scottish race
To aid you in the sovereign rule.
You need a guardian for your son,
And they a chief to lead them on.
There's not a man but will rejoice
To hail the partner of your choice:
To him obedience will they yield,
167
And deal so strictly with your foes,
Whether abroad or here,
That the wide land shall gain repose,
And good men cease to fear.
XXIII.
“So say the Lords: and all agreeTo follow and be ruled by me.
Traced on this parchment are the names
Of those who own and urge my claims.
Therefore the suit which you despise
Seems not so strange to other eyes;
Nor, Madam, were it safe or wise
To thwart their wishes now.
Alone, be sure, you cannot stand;
Gone is the sceptre's might; the brand
Must still the tumults of the land,
And lay rebellion low.
Your nobles proffer well and fair;
They wait your answer to their prayer.
168
Resistance to that prayer is vain.
Their will—or, if you think the word
Too harsh—their counsel must be heard!
Well know I, Madam, what I do,
And what awaits me if I fail:
I stand not here to fawn or sue,
I came determined to prevail!
Think not that rashly I provoke
The sentence and the headsman's stroke!
Hope not for rescue—none will come;
As well seek answer from the dumb!
XXIV.
“Nay, if you doubt me, send and try.No harsh or timid gaoler I!
Your messengers have leave to go
Where water runs or breezes blow.
Send forth your summons—warn them all!
Tell every noble, far and near,
That Bothwell lured you to his hall,
And holds you as a captive here.
169
Call Errol, Caithness, and Argyle;
Give order for the wide alarm
To ring through strath and sound o'er isle.
Call Lethington, your trustiest friend;
Warn Herries of this rude surprise—
How many lances will they send!
Believe me, not a man will rise!
Bound to my cause is every peer;
With their consent I brought you here:
And here your Highness must remain,
And quell your woman's pride;
Till from Dunbar a joyous train
To Holyrood shall ride,
With Bothwell at your palfrey's rein,
And you his willing bride!”
XXV.
O tiger heart! that fiercer grewWith every anguished breath she drew—
That gloated on her quivering eye,
And trance of mortal agony!
170
By man from home, by God from heaven!
What fitter refuge could I have
Than this neglected lair,
Where, grovelling o'er my empty grave,
I yet am free to howl and rave,
And rend my grizzly hair?
O well becomes it me to rage
At crimes of other men,
To snarl defiance from my cage,
And antic in my den—
I, than all others guiltier far,
So vile, so lost, so mean!
O fade from heaven, thou evening star,
I cannot bear thy sheen!
XXVI.
Hopeless, abandoned to despair,What else could Mary do but yield?
I took her hand—she left it there;
'Twas cold and white as frost on field.
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Of frenzied tears was her reply:
For ever be the deed accurst
That forced such witness from her eye!
Dim as an unregarded lamp,
Her light of life was on the wane,
And on her brow was set the stamp
Of utter misery and pain.
Like some caged bird that in dismay
Has fluttered till its strength is gone,
She had no power to fly away,
Though wide the prison-door was thrown.
In vain I strove to wake a smile,
In vain protested she was free;
For bitterly she felt the while
That henceforth she was bound to me!
XXVII.
Again I entered Holyrood;Not as an unexpected guest,
172
With haughty eye and princely crest.
The cannon thundered welcome out;
The magnates all were there;
And though I missed the people's shout,
For them I did not care;
More trusty than the rabble rout,
My troopers filled the square!
XXVIII.
No draught from magic herb or flowerIs equal to the taste of power!
Right royally I took my stand,
With knights and squires on either hand,
And gave due audience to the ring
As though I had been born a king!
More wondrous yet—my altered tone
Seemed strange or malapert to none.
With deep respect and visage meek,
Each civic ruler heard me speak—
Was proud my mandate to fulfil,
And bowed obedience to my will.
173
Something there was that waked my fears:
A guarded, cold, and formal air,
A staid retent of dignity,
A studied guise of courtesy,
Which faithful friends do never wear.
The greatest nobles did not come
To bid their Sovereign welcome home,
Or ratify with cordial hand
The weighty promise of their Band.
Why kept they from me at the time
When most I lacked their aid?
Was I, whom they had urged to crime,
Deserted and betrayed?
Did they but league to tempt me on?
Were all their vows a lure?
Even with my foot upon the throne,
I stood as insecure
As the rash huntsman on the lake
When winter slacks its spell,
Who feels the ice beneath him quake,
And dreads the treacherous well.
174
XXIX.
Yet not by look, or word, or sign,Did I my fears betray;
One sole desire and thought was mine,
To haste the wedding-day.
The law, though drowsy in its course,
Gave me, at length, a full divorce.
Nor did the Church refuse its aid,
Though Craig a stern remonstrance made.
He was a zealot like the rest,
But far more honest than his kind,
And would not yield, without protest,
A service hateful to his mind.
Warned by the past, I would not wait
Till Mary breathed again.
I did not ask for idle state,
For gathering of the proud and great,
Or pomp of nuptial train.
I spoke the word—she made me Duke.
I claimed her hand the self-same day:
175
And wan and piteous was her look,
She did not answer, Nay!
XXX.
All was accomplished. By my sideThe Queen of Scotland knelt, a bride.
In face of Holy Kirk, her hand
Was linked with mine in marriage band:
Her lips pronounced the solemn word;
I rose, her husband and her lord!
And now, what lacked I more?
Around me thronged the guests to pay
Their duty on the wedding-day:
Proud and elate, I smiled on all
As master in that royal hall.
Scarce had I spoke, when clashing fell
A weapon on the floor:
I trembled, for I knew it well—
The sword that Darnley wore.
177
6. PART SIXTH.
179
I.
O that I were a mountaineer,To dwell among the Highland hills!
To tread the heath, to watch the deer,
Beside the fountains of the rills;
To wander by the lonely lake
All silent in the evening's glow,
When, like a phantom, from the brake
Comes gliding past the stealthy roe—
Without a thought, without a care,
Without ambition, pomp, or crime,
To live a harmless peasant there,
And die at God's appointed time!
For O, of what avail are power,
Wealth, worship—all we seek to win,
180
Of rest, and hope, and peace within?
II.
I had no peace; if peace it beTo rest unscared, to wake secure,
To let the fancy wander free,
Or dream of pleasant things and pure:
To take sweet counsel with a friend,
Or, dearer, with a loving wife,
And sometimes gladly to unbend
The strained and weary bow of life.
Broken and feverish was my sleep,
For, all night long, within my room
Methought I heard the murderers creep,
And voices whisper through the gloom.
Nor, when the ghastly night was o'er,
Content or respite did I win;
For guilt stood sentry at the door,
And challenged all who ventured in.
In fear I slept; in fear I woke;
In fear I lingered out the day;
181
I thought was uttered to betray.
I had no friends, save those whose fate
A common danger linked with mine—
Men who provoked the people's hate,
And roared, like ruffians, o'er their wine.
The burghers heard the noisy brawl
That scared the swallows from their eaves,
And mourned that Scotland's royal hall
Should thus be made a den of thieves.
III.
I had a wife—a fair one too—But love I durst not even name!
I kept aloof, for why renew
The memory of my sin and shame?
She was my hostage, not my bride;
Enough it was for me to know
She could not sever from my side,
Nor yet unsay the marriage-vow.
O these were not my thoughts of yore,
When, free from fell ambition's taint,
182
The queen, the woman, and the saint!
My hand had torn the wings of love,
Profaned its temple, soiled its shrine;
No pardon here, nor yet above,
Could granted be to guilt like mine!
IV.
Pardon! I sought it not from men;I would not take it at their hand;
I owned no judge, no master then;
I was the lord within the land.
Pardon! the word was made for slaves,
Not for a Sovereign Prince like me:
Lost is the man who pardon craves
From any baser in degree.
There is a peak of guilt so high,
That those who reach it stand above
The sweep of dull humanity,
The trail of passion and of love.
The lower clouds that dim the heaven,
Touch not the mountain's hoary crown,
183
God's lightning only smites them down!
V.
O for a war to make me freed!Had England but denied my claim,
And sent an army o'er the Tweed
To wrap the Border braes in flame—
Then Scotland would have risen indeed,
And followed me, if but for shame!
I might have met the foe in field,
And raised the Hepburn's name so high,
That none thereafter on my shield
Could trace the bend of infamy.
I might have won the people's heart,
For all men love the stalwart arm;
And valour triumphs over art,
As faith defies a wizard's charm.
Once victor o'er my country's foes,
What lord in Scotland durst oppose
Her champion's rights, or mutter shame
Against my newly-gilded name?
184
Disdainful ear. I never spurned
Their doctrines, though I did not care,
And knew not what those doctrines were.
In truth, I thought the time had come
When every state in Europe wide
Should clear itself from bonds of Rome;
And let the Pontiff, deified,
Deal with the candle, book, and bell,
In any way that pleased him well.
VI.
But England moved not. England lay,As doth the lion in the brake,
When waiting for some noble prey,
With ear intent, and eye awake:
I, like a wretched mongrel cur,
Might safely pass his couch before;
Not for my snarling would he stir—
I was not worth the lion's roar!
The courtiers left me; one by one,
Like shadows did they glide away:
185
Why should the fortune-hunters stay?
VII.
There was dead silence for a space:A hush, as deep and still
As on the lowly valley lies,
When clouds, surcharged with lightning, rise,
And loom along the hill.
Then with a rush, the rumours came
Of gatherings near at hand,
Where nobles, knights, and chiefs of fame,
Were arming in the Prince's name,
To drive me from the land!
And straightway through the city rose
The low and angry hum,
That tells of keen and bitter foes
Who cluster ere they come.
Post after post rode clattering in,
Loud rung the court with soldiers' din;
For Bolton at the first alarm
Bade all the troopers rise and arm.
186
VIII.
Aroused as if by trumpet-call,I felt my spirit bound;
No longer pent in hateful hall,
Now must I forth to fight or fall,
With men-at-arms around!
I cared not what the scouts might bring—
I hungered for the strife;
When victor, I must reign as King;
If vanquished, yield my life.
With spear in rest, and visor down,
'Twas but one swift career—
A glorious grave, or else a crown—
The sceptre, or the bier!
Aha! there was no tarrying then!
For prance of steed, and tramp of men,
And clash of arms, and hasty call,
Were heard in court, and street, and hall.
Each trooper drew a heartier breath,
And keener glowed his eye;
187
No man of mine would fly!
IX.
“Give me your hand, brave Ormiston!My father loved you dear!
Not better than you love his son—
For since the day that I could run,
Or shake a mimic spear,
You were my guardian and my guide,
And never parted from my side
In danger, doubt, or fear.
There's comfort in thy hearty grasp;
By heaven, it is an honest hand!
I'd rather hold it in my clasp,
Than any noble's in the land.
Henceforward must I stand alone,
Or only lean on friends like thee;
Of all the caitiff Lords, not one
Is here to strike a blow for me!
188
The star of Bothwell hath not set;
Nor will it pale its royal light,
For traitor's craft or foeman's might.
I'll hold account for every deed,
From this momentous hour;
And those who fail me in my need
Shall feel me in my power!
X.
“Now then; what news?” “This much I learn,That Morton, Atholl, and Glencairn,
Lindsay and Home, Kirkaldy, Mar,
Drumlanrig, Cessford, raise the war.
They've drawn to Stirling. What their force,
Our scouts could hardly tell;
Enow there are of man and horse,
To fence a battle well.”
“Morton! art sure? Is Morton there?
Ah, then I have him in the snare!
189
Victorious on a field of dead,
I'll have that perjured villain's head!
Atholl? It is a monstrous sign,
When Atholl and Glencairn combine!
Who could have brought the friend of Rome
To beard me, from his Highland home?
Ah, now I see it! Lethington,
That arch-dissembler, stirs him on;
My evil genius still was he—
Fool that I was to set him free!
A dungeon in yon fortress grim
Had been the fittest place for him.
So then! The masks are thrown away,
Confessed is every foe;
And boldly to the battle fray,
With lighter hearts we'll go.
But there's a danger near at hand,
A snake to crush or kill!
What hear'st thou of the City band?
The craftsmen—bide they still?”
190
XI.
“If I have read their faces right,My life on't, they will rise to-night!
The booths are closed, the windows barred;
In every street patrols a guard.
The rogues are restless; by and by,
They'll all come swarming here:
'Twere best to flit, though not to fly,
Whilst yet the road is clear.
I am not wont to shun a fray,
And seldom give a faint advice,
But this most frankly do I say—
I'd rather ride the Teviot thrice,
When rolling in its heaviest flood,
Than meet that rascal multitude!
Give me an open field without,
And then, with fifty men,
I'd drive, like chaff, the rabble rout
Back to their smoky den.
We dare not venture, for their guard,
What force these walls require;
191
The Palace sunk in fire!
Away then, Duke! and warn the Queen:
Doubtless her Grace will gladly ride!
Her presence must be plainly seen,
To bring the faithful to our side.
Were all the Border chieftains true,
I'd care not what the rest might do.
I knew that soon the strife must come—
That stout Kirkaldy would not sleep,
Nor Morton tarry in his keep—
But this revolt of Ker and Home
Hath changed the aspect of the war:
Therefore let's forth without delay.
Our trysting-place shall be Dunbar,
With Borthwick on the way.”
XII.
I know not why: but o'er my soul,That eve, the self-same bodement stole
That thrilled me with a sad presage
When last I gazed on Hermitage.
192
Along the slant and broken ground,
Beneath old Arthur's lion-hill.
The Queen went onward with her train;
I rode not by her palfrey's rein,
But lingered at the tiny rill
That flows from Anton's fane.
Red was the sky; but Holyrood
In dusk and sullen grandeur stood.
It seemed as though the setting sun
Refused to lend it light,
So cheerless was its look, and dun,
While all above was bright.
Black in the glare rose spire and vane,
No lustre streamed from window-pane;
But, as I stood, the Abbey bell
Tolled out, with such a dismal knell
As smites with awe the shuddering crowd,
When a king's folded in his shroud—
Methought it said, Farewell!
193
XIII.
So passed we on. The month was June:We did not need the lady moon
To light us onwards on our way
Through thickets white with hawthorn spray.
Past old Dalhousie's stately tower,
Up the lone Esk, across the moor,
By many a hamlet, many a spring,
By holt, and knowe, and fairy ring,
By many a noted trysting-place,
We held our course, nor slacked our pace,
Till far away beyond the road
The lights in Borthwick Castle showed.
Short tarrying had we there, I ween!
Again we sought the woodlands green;
For fiery Home was on our track,
With thousand spearmen at his back:
Nor dared we rest, till from Dunbar
I gave the signal for the war.
194
XIV.
By heaven, it was a glorious sight,When the sun started from the sea,
And in the vivid morning light
The long blue waves were rolling free!
But little time had I to gaze
Upon the ocean's kindling face,
Or mark the breakers in the bay—
For other thoughts were mine that day.
I stood upon the topmost tower:
From wood, and shaw, and brake, and bower,
I heard the trumpet's blithesome sound,
I heard the tuck of drum;
And, bearing for the castle mound,
I saw the squadrons come.
Each Baron, sheathed from head to heel
In splendid panoply of steel,
Rode stalwartly before his band,
The bravest yeomen of the land.
There were the pennons that in fight
Had flashed across the Southron's sight—
195
And bristled in the battle's front
On many a bloody day—
The swords, that through the hostile press,
When steeds were plunging masterless,
Had hewn their desperate way!
O gallant hearts! what joy to ride,
Your lord and leader, prince and guide,
With you around me, and beside,
But once in battle fray!
XV.
Brief counsel held we in the hall:Ready for fight seemed one and all.
Though somewhat I was chafed to bear
But cold regard from knight and peer.
I was the husband of their Queen:
Not less, nor more. Old Seton's mien
Was haughty, grave—no frankness there.
With his long beard, and lyart hair,
His heavy mantle o'er him thrown,
He looked an effigy of stone.
196
And so I will not speak him wrong;
But, then, the hardness of his brow
Was more than I could suffer long.
He was a noble of a stamp
Whereof this age hath witnessed few;
Men who came duly to the camp,
Whene'er the Royal trumpet blew.
Blunt tenure lords, who deemed the Crown
As sacred as the Holy Tree,
And laid their lives and fortunes down,
Not caring what the cause might be.
Such chiefs were they who held the fight,
And strove, and would not yield,
Till rushed from heaven the stars of night
O'er Flodden's cumbered field.
Spare were his words, his greeting cold,
His look more distant than of old.
But that 'twere madness to offend
The simplest knight that seemed a friend;
But that my men were few—
I would have made Lord Seton know
197
Or fail in reverence due!
XVI.
And Mary—what did she the while?Alas, she never showed a smile!
I dared not ask her to appear
Within the castle hall,
Her champions and her knights to cheer—
She might have hailed them with a tear,
Or breathed a word in Seton's ear,
That would have wrought my fall.
She loathed her bondage—that I knew.
What is it woman will not do
To free herself from thrall?
She, daughter of a race of kings,
Instinct with that desire
Which makes the eagle beat its wings
Against the prison wire—
She, wronged, insulted, and betrayed,
Might she not claim her vassals' aid?
198
To bear her from her hated spouse,
And, in the face of heaven, proclaim
My guilt, my treason, and my shame?
They asked not, in her secret bower,
The wearied Queen to see;
I took, by right, the husband's power,
And none dared question me.
XVII.
Another morn—another day!—And what, ere dusk, was I?
A fugitive, a castaway,
A recreant knight who did not stay
On battle-field to die!
Curs'd be the hands that held me back
When death lay ready in my track,
Curs'd be the slaves who turned my rein
And forced me panting from the plain!—
O boaster, liar, murderer—worse,
Traitor and felon—hold thy curse!
199
There's none so deep debased as thee!
A murderer may be strong of heart,
A liar act a warrior's part,
A traitor may be bold and brave,
A felon fearless at the grave—
Branded, condemned, of fame bereft,
The courage of a man is left.
But coward—O that sickening sound!
Great God! To pass without a wound,
Without one shivered spear or blow,
From such a field, from such a foe,
To lose a Queen and kingdom so—
To tremble, shrink, and vilely fly—
It was not I!—it was not I!
XVIII.
O breeze! that blowest from the west,O'er that dear land I loved the best—
Breathe on my temples, cool my brow,
And keep the madness from me now!
200
Red as a furnace glare the skies;
And all things waver up and down,
Like shadows in a burning town.
There's hellish laughter in mine ear—
More air—more air! I stifle here!
XIX.
Devil! thou shalt not yet prevail;Before thy face I will not quail!
I fled—Do brave men never fly?
I am no coward—'tis a lie!
I stood upon Carberry's height,
Eager, intent, resolved to fight,
Ay, to the death, as seems a knight!
Down on the plain, beyond the hill,
The foe were motionless and still.
Why tarried so the rebel lords?
Were we not ready with our swords?
They came not on with shield and targe,
And lances levelled for the charge;
201
Like children on a holiday.
XX.
I sent a challenge to their van—The Laird of Grange that challenge bore,
I spared his life an hour before—
I bade them choose their bravest man,
My equal in degree;
So that we two alone might try
The cast for death or victory,
And all the rest go free.
No braggart speech was that of mine.
My blood had flowed, ere then, like wine,
In fiercer combat and more fell
Than any Scottish peer could tell.
I, who had laid John Elliot low,
Need scarce have feared another foe!
XXI.
Rare answer to my call they gave—O they were noble hearts and brave!
202
He was at best a simple knight,
Without a claim, without a right
To meet a prince like me.
He was no mate in camp or hall;
I stood not there to fight with all,
Whatever their degree.
“I dare not then,” Kirkaldy said,
“To take this quarrel on my head.
If Tullibardine ranks too low
To hold your challenge as a foe,
No better claim have I.
Yet, would the Duke of Orkney deign
To meet me yonder on the plain,
And there his fortune try,
I cannot think that any stain
Upon his name would lie.
It has been mine, ere now, to ride
In battle front by Princes' side;
With Egmont I have broke a lance,
Charged with the Constable of France—”
Then Ormiston broke in:—
203
A story that we know full well?
If never Scot did win
More fame than you in fields abroad,
Where better men, I think, have trod,
How stand you here to-day?
A traitor to your Queen and God,
A knave in knight's array!
Aha! you startle at the word—
Here am I ready, with my sword,
To prove it, if you dare!
I am your equal—will you fight?
I stand in arms for Mary's right—
Do this, and I'll believe you quite,
Rank boaster though you are!”
XXII.
Grimly his foe Kirkaldy eyed,And heavy breath he drew;
Clenched was his hand as he replied,
For sharp the taunt, and true.
204
Thy wit hath mastered mine:
I came not here to prove my steel
On ruffian crests like thine!
Yet just, in part, is thy rebuke,
So much I yield to thee—
I was in fault to urge the Duke,
As now thou urgest me.
But not by jeer or ribald word
Canst thou so far prevail,
As tempt me now to draw my sword,
Far less return thy rail.
I will not meet a murderer, sir,
For such, I ween, art thou!”
“So la! Here is a goodly stir,
And tender conscience too!
John Knox has done his duty well,
His pupil's apt and fain!
When holy Kirk rings out the bell,
Her saints must needs refrain.
Hearken, sir knight! for all your boast,
For all your foreign pride,
205
And more—you stand defied!
I fling the lie into your teeth,
The scorn upon your head!
Say, was that sword within its sheath,
When priestly Beatoun bled?
Murder, indeed! Pluck off your glove,
Lift up your hand on high—
Swear, in the face of heaven above,
You're sackless—then I lie!”
XXIII.
“Hold, sirs!” I said, “and list to me.Your quarrel well can wait:
Since present combat may not be,
Forbear this rude debate!
Unanswered is my challenge still
By those to whom 'twas borne,
If you, Kirkaldy, spoke my will—
Is that from fear or scorn?
Your offer, sir, was mere pretext!
Doubtless some squire would venture next;
206
Would crave to meet me, hand to hand!
Go—say to Morton and to Mar,
I strained my courtesy too far,
In that I sent my battle-gage
To every rebel peer.
Perchance their prudence cools their rage,
Or else they did not hear!
Brave leaders have you, Laird of Grange—
I wish you joy, Sir, of the change!
Here might I tarry for a week,
And never find a foe.
The friends in France of whom you speak
Had scarcely lingered so!
XXIV.
“Go back—and tell them I revokeThe general challenge that I spoke.
Say that I now demand the right,
Open to every peer and knight,
To call his equal to the field.
Say, that I smite on Morton's shield!
207
I'll brand him as a recreant knave—
If he comes forth, the quarrel's tried,
For one or both shall find a grave.
And now, God speed you! go your way:
I have no other word to say.”
XXV.
Glad was I when he turned his steed,And slowly paced towards the mead,
Where, round a standard, whose device
I could not scan so far,
Lay stretched in sluggards' paradise,
The leaders of the war.
Yet throbbed my heart, for well I knew
A cursed chance had been,
While I was forth the field to view,
Kirkaldy met the Queen!
And fear came on me, as the blight
Of fever shakes the frame,
I could not guide my thoughts aright,
My blood was hot as flame.
208
As writhes in storm the oak,
And twice I heard his angry groan
Ere yet a word I spoke.
“What answer on the rebels' part
Will yon Kirkaldy bear?”
“An answer that will freeze your heart,
And drive you to despair!
XXVI.
“Yonder, unscathed, triumphant, goesThe only man I dread!
What madness made you interpose,
When he was ready-ripe for blows,
And I could strike him dead?
He takes a secret to their camp,
Is worth your life and mine,
My hand was up to break the lamp,
But you will have it shine!
Ay! and forsooth, you must display
Your idle chivalry to-day!
209
He will not fight with you.
Why, you proclaim your fortune lost—
You tell them that you doubt your host;
For, if that host were true,
No warlike leader, ever known,
From the arch-angel Michael, down
To the poor Laird with twenty spears,
Would so dishonour his compeers!
And they are faint: and fainter still
You'll find them at the dawn,
If sets the sun behind the hill
Ere yet the swords are drawn.
Hark you—one only chance is ours!
Let me, this instant, form our powers.
The Border lances will not fail,
Though all the rest remain;
I'll to the bands of Liddesdale,
And lead them to the plain.
Bide where you are, or seek the Queen;
Leave all the charge to me,
210
Within the hour, you'll see!
Come, Duke—the signal! Let me go,
And, by my father's head,
I'll bring you bound your deadliest foe,
Or leave him yonder, dead!”
XXVII.
“I cannot do it—for my wordIs pledged; I needs must wait.”
“You? Are we nothing here, my Lord?
You are not yet so great,
That valiant men should lay their lives
At your commandment down.
Sir—had you twenty royal wives,
You never wore the crown!
I have some reverence for my neck,
And will not risk it at your beck!
Hearken! You know my way of old—
Best is the truth when bluntly told.
Your life and mine are now at stake,
There's but one game to play;
211
And that I'll make to-day!
Nay, if you wish it, come with me,
Together let us ride;
No franker hand, so it were free,
I'd welcome to my side.
Better to die with helm on head,
Than mount a scaffold grim—
Why—you are paler than the dead,
You shake in every limb!
Are you the man who went so far
At Kirk-of-Field, and at Dunbar,
And shrink you from the face of war?
Why stand you here as on parade?
By heaven—I think the Duke's afraid!
If it be so, then fare you well!
Now, shall we onwards go?
Each minute is a passing-bell—
'Sdeath! answer, yes or no!”
XXVIII.
“I tarry here!” “God help thee then—I'll see thy face no more!
212
Not to be gathered up again,
Is the old love I bore.
Best I forget thee, Bothwell! Yet
'Tis not so easy to forget;
For, at the latest hour, I see
I've tyned a life by following thee.
Friends, fortune, fame, a crown are lost,
By you, the captain of a host,
The host is standing idly there,
And not a single blade is bare!
Saint Andrew! what a scurvy tale
To carry back to Teviotdale!
Farewell, thou poor inconstant lord—
Farewell—it is my latest word!”
XXIX.
He parted like a flash of fire;He vanished o'er the hill;
My friend, the follower of my sire,
The man I trusted still!
213
Nor tried the chance of war?
Ah—she, the injured and betrayed,
The captive of Dunbar—
I did not dare to face her then,
Before Lord Seton and his men!
But, from the plain, a trumpet call
Came ringing, sharp and clear;
Up flew the knightly pennons all,
Up rose, in clumps, the spear.
And hastily each leader went,
To marshal forth his band;
And steeds neighed fiercely, to the scent
Of battle near at hand.
Then, from their ranks, Kirkaldy came,
To me he wended slow;—
O, I could slay myself for shame,
As I recall it now!—
There was no vaunting in his look:
The man was brave as bold;
His eye was like a priest's rebuke,
So calm it was and cold.
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XXX.
“Now, sir—will Morton forward stand,Or does he shun me still?”
Aloft Kirkaldy raised his hand,
And pointed to the hill.
“Nay! look, my lord, to yonder height,
And mark the tumult there;
Is it for combat or for flight,
Those broken bands prepare?
An ancient soldier, well I know
Each move on battle-plain;
Though firm their front an hour ago,
They'll never knit again!
There go the men from Teviot-side!
They do not fly from fear.
See—o'er the edge the troopers ride;
How quick they disappear!
Now Liddesdale, your surest stay,
Is turning—Duke, you groan!
Whose ensign is it they display?
Look there—it is your own!”
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XXXI.
Yes! every word he spoke was true;My cause was lost, and that I knew;
Yet haughtily I said—
“My challenge, sir! Do you forget
That Morton hath not answered yet?”
Kirkaldy bowed his head.
“Take this for answer—not for feud
Or chivalrous display,
Shall any drop of Scottish blood
Be wagered here to-day!
Forego this dream of idle strife,
Black Death is hovering near;
O sir, you dally with your life
By longer tarrying here!
I love you not; but loth were I,
Whate'er your deeds have been,
To see a Scottish noble die
A death of shame and infamy;
And more, because he stood so high,
The husband of my Queen!
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Fly, sir, while yet you can.
Attainted and proscribed you are,
A tried and sentenced man!
And swift and hasty be your flight;
For, if you spur not, while the night
Can shroud you with its gloom,
You die—but not in noble fight;
The scaffold is your doom!
Come then with me: while I am here,
No sudden onset need you fear.
I seek the Queen. Belike, once more,
You would behold her face:
Then, far away from Scotland's shore,
Depart—God give you grace!”
XXXII.
Had the earth yawned, the thunder crashed,Or had the bolts of lightning flashed,
And right before me broke;
I had not felt more deep abashed
Than when Kirkaldy spoke.
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A culprit up to Mary's tent:
No eyes were fixed on me.
All looked upon the Laird of Grange,
As if, throughout broad Scotland's range,
Was none so great as he.
XXXIII.
There was more life in Mary's face,A higher dignity and grace,
Than I had marked for many a day.
Behind her, in their steel array,
Seton and Yester gravely stood:
Their presence boded little good,
No love for me had they.
And none were there, with kindly grasp,
My hand within their own to clasp;
No voice to whisper in my ear
That hope was yet alive;
No friend to bid me cope with fear,
And still with fortune strive.
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I might have kept mine own:
O Ormiston—it was not well
To leave me thus alone!
XXXIV.
Before the Queen Kirkaldy bent,And graciously she said:—
“Now, speak, Sir Knight; with what intent
Is yonder host arrayed?
What seek my Lords?” Then answered he,
“They come to set your Highness free!
Your pardon—though the Duke be here,
I must speak boldly on.
They hold him as a traitor peer,
To you and to your son—”
Then burst my wrath;—“Dare they deny
The solemn Band they gave?
By heaven, such weight of infamy
Should sink them to the grave!
Did they not say that I alone
Was the fit man to guard the throne?
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Have faith and honour left the land?”
XXXV.
“Your pardon, Duke!” Kirkaldy said,“Not of the Band is question made,
But did you not, by force of war,
Convey her Highness to Dunbar?
My gracious Liege! The Peers invite
Your Highness to return this night
To Holyrood, your royal home,
And to escort you there, they come.
Not against you shall Scottish swords
E'er glitter in the sun.
This message bear I from the Lords;
And now my task is done.”
XXXVI.
Not once did Mary's eye and mineEncounter while he spoke.
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The daughter of the Stuart line
Would not endure the yoke!
“My answer, sir,” she said, “depends
Upon the temper of your friends.
Plainly—their purpose with the Duke?
Mark this, that when his hand I took
And spake the solemn vows,
I lost my freedom to rebuke;
I owned him as my spouse.
If, for my sake, the Lords appear,
The right is mine to dictate here.
My husband shall not brook the shame
Of trial and disgrace;
I will not so demean my name,
Or so belie my race,
As let my subjects venge my wrong,
Whatever wrong there be.
Thanks be to God, I yet am strong
Through those brave Lords you see!
Good sir! your course has upright been,
Your honour all allow—
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Who asks a service now.
Set free the path, your host restrain;
And by your knighthood swear,
That not a man shall quit his train,
Ere I pass downward to the plain,
And greet my nobles there.”
“So shall it be,” Kirkaldy said;
“For that I pledge my life, my head!
Free is the Duke to pass from hence,
Without molest, without offence,
With all his following, all his power,
So that he tarries not an hour.”
XXXVII.
The tear was in Queen Mary's eye,As forth she held her hand.
“Then is the time of parting nigh!
For, Bothwell, my command
Is that you go and save a life
That else were lost in useless strife.
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But I have passed such years of pain—
So many partings have I known,
That this poor heart has callous grown.
Farewell! If any thing there be
That moves you when you think on me,
Believe that you are quite forgiven
By one who bids you pray to Heaven!
No soul alive so innocent
But needs must beg at Mercy's door—
Farewell!” She passed from out the tent.
O God—I never saw her more!
XXXVIII.
Was it a dream? or did I hearA yell of scorn assail my ear,
As frantic from the host I rode?
The very charger I bestrode
Rebelled in wrath against the rein,
And strove to bear me back again!
Lost, lost! I cared not where I went—
Lost, lost! And none were there,
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A refuge from despair.
How fared the rest? I do not know,
For I was maddened with my woe.
But I remember when we sailed
From out that dreary Forth,
And in the dull of morning hailed
The headlands of the North:
The hills of Caithness wrapped in rain,
The reach of Stroma's isle,
The Pentland, where the furious main
Roars white for many a mile—
Until we steered by Shapinsay,
And moored our bark in Kirkwall bay.
Yet not in Orkney would they brook
The presence of their banished Duke.
The castle gates were shut and barred,
Up rose in arms the burgher guard;
No refuge there we found.
But that I durst not tarry long,
I would have ta'en that castle strong,
And razed it to the ground!
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And yet the sky was red with light,
And purple rolled the deep.
When morning came, we saw the tide
Break thundering on the rugged side
Of Sumburgh's awful steep;
And, weary of the wave, at last
In Bressay Sound our anchor cast.
XXXIX.
O faithless were the waves and wind!Still the avenger sped behind.
No rock so rude, no isle so lone,
That I might claim it as my own.
A price was set upon my head,
Hunted from place to place I fled;
Till chased across the open seas,
I met the surly Dane.
These were his gifts and welcome—these!
A dungeon and a chain!
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XL.
Descend, black night! Blot out thy stars;Nor let them through those prison bars
Behold me writhing here!
For there's a hand upon my heart
That makes my being thrill and start;
A voice is in mine ear.
I hear its whisper, sad and low,
As if a spirit wailed in woe—
“Bothwell! thine end is near.”
O then, in mercy, keep away,
Ye spectral forms, nor cast dismay
Upon me in my dying hour!
Why should it please you that I cower,
Like a lashed hound, beneath your stare,
And shriek, a madman in despair?
Give me one night, 'tis all I crave,
To pass in darkness to the grave,
Nor more this agony renew—
What's here?—No phantom of the tomb!
Death has not cast his livid hue
226
Upon the forehead, fair and high,
Of Scotland's Queenly Majesty!
Mary, is't thou? and com'st thou here,
Alive, to chide me for my wrong?
O, for the love of God, forbear!
Haunt me not now! I've suffered long,
And bitter has my anguish been!
What brings thee hither, woeful Queen?
Ah, what is that? a scaffold dressed—
The axe, the headsman, and the priest—
O God! it surely cannot be!—
Come, Death; and I will welcome thee!
| Bothwell | |