University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIFTH.

Scene I.

BURLEIGH, DAVISON.
BURLEIGH.
Justice at length hath done her pious office,
And Mary is condemn'd.

DAVISON.
In truth, my lord,
Before the great tribunal as she stood,
And cast her lovely eyes around the throng,
With reverential awe I gazed upon her;
Her modest look and fair demeanour charm'd
The list'ning crowd: with such becoming firmness,
Such sweet deportment, dignity, and grace,
Such energy of grief she urged her cause;
I blush to own it, but I pitied her,
And almost wish'd I could have been her friend.

BURLEIGH.
She found too many there, and whilst she lives
We are not safe. Elizabeth alone
Can execute the sentence: but her will
Is most capricious; as old age creeps on,
Desponding fears and causeless jealousy
Oppress her mind, as heavy vapours rise
To cloud the evening of the brightest day.

DAVISON.
She is much changed of late; and, much disturb'd,
The fierce contending passions seem to shake
Her brittle frame, and rack her inmost soul:
Last night I watch'd her, when, in pensive mood,
Disconsolate and wild, she wander'd o'er
The lonely palace, stopp'd, and turn'd again,
Then cried, “No! Davison, it must not be!
She shall not die?”

BURLEIGH.
Dissimulation all!
She hates, abhors, detests the Scottish queen.
But she's a woman, and must be persuaded
To what she wishes most. Yonder she comes:
Now mark how I will bend her to my purpose,
Awake her fears, alarm her jealousy,
And fire her proud resentment:—but she's here.

Enter ELIZABETH, LEICESTER, &c.
ELIZABETH.
(Reading a paper.)
‘Strike, or be stricken;’ so the motto says:
'Tis a kind caution, and deserves our notice.
[Turns to Leicester.
How hard, my Leicester, is the sov'reign's lot!
If we condemn, however just the sentence,
The world will call us cruel and severe;
And, if we pardon, blame our ill-placed mercy,
Or say it's so, because we dare not punish.

LEICESTER.
Forgive our zeal; what has been urged we hope
Will not offend your grace: you are not safe
Whilst Mary yet survives.

HATTON.
We only ask
For justice.

LEICESTER.
Justice on a traitor.

ELIZABETH.
What say my faithful Commons? Davison,
Can they devise no means to save her?

DAVISON.
None.
They humbly do intreat your grace, to give
Immediate orders for her execution.

ELIZABETH.
I thank you for your counsel, thank you all,
Because I know it springs from honest love,
And kind attention to me; but 'tis hard,
'Tis wondrous hard, that you will force me thus
To bathe my hands in blood.

BURLEIGH.
Will't please your highness
To see th'ambassadors who wait without,
And crave admittance?

ELIZABETH.
No; I'll none of them:
What is the purport of their embassy?

BURLEIGH.
Bellievre comes, my liege, to say, if, moved
By kind compassion for the royal captive,
You grant her pardon, every aid that France,
With all her power and friendship, can bestow,
You may command; henceforth she binds herself
In solemn league of amity and love.

ELIZABETH.
Our cousin, France, no doubt must mean us well,
In wishing thus we sagely would resign
Our throne and life, to save a worthless woman:
Tell him, we thank him for the kind advice,
But cannot buy his friendship quite so dear:
What more?

BURLEIGH.
With grief he adds, if you condemn her
To ignominious death, he stands resolved
To join the friends of injured majesty;
Nor will he sheathe the sword, till he hath found
Atonement due, and ample retribution.

ELIZABETH.
'Tis nobly vaunted; but the hand of heaven
May guard us still: meantime, let him inform
The blust'ring Henry, that his promised aid
We need not, and his threat'nings we despise.
And, what says Scotland?

BURLEIGH.
Filial piety
Pleads hard for Mary's life: but if you spurn
The suppliant's prayer, you must expect ere long
To meet an injured sov'reign, at the head
Of his indignant people, to avenge
The insult, and repay it, blood for blood.

ELIZABETH.
Mistaken, foolish boy! but let him bear
This answer back: It much may profit him
To hide his griefs, and stifle his resentment.
The time may come when others will be glad
Of what we have to give; if he contemn it,
Let him be told, we leave him the free choice
Of a rich kingdom, or—a poor revenge.

Enter an OFFICER.
OFFICER.
My liege, the French are landed on our coast,
Led by the powerful Guise; the Sussex shore
Is cover'd with their troops.

ELIZABETH.
Why, let them come;
We are prepared to meet them.

OFFICER.
They advance
With twenty times our force.

ELIZABETH.
No matter, sir;
When Britons, urged by wrongs like these, unite
To scourge oppression, 'tis disloyalty
To doubt success, and treason to despair.
Begone, and leave us.

BURLEIGH.
Whilst the Scottish queen
Still lives to brave us, every power will join
To aid her cause: this very morn, my lords,
I was inform'd, a Spanish fleet was seen
Near Milford Haven; already their proud sails
Are flutt'ring in the harbour.

ELIZABETH.
Mary's claim
To England's throne, has been long since transferr'd
To Spain's imperial lord, and they are come
In Philip's name to take possession of
The visionary kingdom she bequeath'd;
And it shall not be long before we give them
A legal claim to their inheritance.

WALSINGHAM.
My letters say that Scotland's king, enraged
At Mary's sentence and approaching fate,
Is marching southward, and his lawless bands
E'en now are ravaging our borders.

ELIZABETH.
Ha!
And must we then be threaten'd into pardon?
When they have got a lion in the toils,
How every little beast will spurn at him,
To show his valour.—To be braved, insulted,
And menaced thus!—She shall not live a day;
No, not an hour!—Come hither, Davison;
There is a fatal paper which I gave you;
A warrant I commanded you to draw
For Mary's execution.

DAVISON.
Here, my liege,
It only wants your royal signature.

ELIZABETH.
I'll give it you.—Yet stop a moment! Ha!
What think you, sir; a woman, and a queen!
It must not be! She could not want my crown,
For that she knows would only make her wretched;
And for my life,—she dare not!—Take it back:
Some other time we'll think on't.

BURLEIGH.
Come, my lord,
Let us be gone: the queen rejects our suit.
But hear me, madam; since 'tis your resolve,
To tempt the providence that hath preserved you,
Take back your honours, I resign them all,
All trust and office here: I will not stay
To see my sov'reign fall, and be a tame
And silent witness of my country's ruin.

ELIZABETH.
(To Davison.)
Give me the paper;—cruel, bloody Cecil
Says I must do it, therefore be it so:
My people say I must. Look, Davison,
How my hand trembles whilst I write.—'Tis done;
Away with it! begone this instant,
Ere I repent, and wish the deed undone.
This will content you all: you see I hold
Your peace and welfare dearer than my own.

[Exeunt Lords.
ELIZABETH, BURLEIGH.
ELIZABETH.
Cecil, come hither. Now we are alone,
I'll tell thee all I feel and all I fear.

BURLEIGH.
Thou hast no cause to fear: from this blest hour,
I trust nor foreign nor domestic foes
Shall e'er disturb the peace of England's queen.

ELIZABETH.
It is disturb'd; 'tis lost, 'tis gone. I see
The hand of Heaven in wrath upraised against me,
And I shall never taste of comfort more.

BURLEIGH.
Why, what hath happened?

ELIZABETH.
O! last night, my Cecil,
I had a horrid dream that shook my soul.
Methought the furious Mary stood before me,
In bloody robes array'd, and pale with wrath.
Sudden she snatch'd the sceptre from my hand,
And gave it to a low'ring, peevish boy.
Behold! she cried, how Darnley's hapless race
Rise to revenge the murther of his queen.
This future curse of thy devoted land,
Ordain'd by fate to scourge a guilty people,
Shall rule thy kingdom with an iron rod:
Ne'er shall thy wretched subjects find repose,
Or England flourish whilst a Stuart reigns.

BURLEIGH.
And shall the great Elizabeth be scared
By idle dreams, the mere delusive sport
Of wanton fancy in the troubled mind?
But grant they were the harbingers of truth,
Which Heaven avert! if after long possession
Of every joy that freedom could bestow
Beneath thy fost'ring care, the maddening crowd
Again should stoop to slavery and Rome,
Would that obscure the lustre of thy virtues?
Thy memory then would be but more revered
By after ages.

ELIZABETH.
I would have my name,
Like my own Thames, or Medway's lucid wave,
To flow for ever down the stream of time
Clear and untainted. Will not this pollute
The limpid current? how shall I appear
Hereafter? will not history's sacred page
Record me as a proud, oppressive tyrant?
Will it not call me cruel and unjust?
Will it not say I kill'd a lovely queen?
That I was jealous of superior charms,
And envied triumphs which I could not gain?

BURLEIGH.
'Twill say you follow'd nature's first great law,
Self-preservation, which appeals to all,
And is by all obey'd: 'twill say you saved
From death the best of sovereigns, and restored
To safety and to peace, the land you loved.

ELIZABETH.
Thy partial kindness mitigates my woes,
And softens every ill; yet, would to heaven
Thou hadst not made me sign that dreadful paper:
I feel myself to blame; I've gone too far;
O! call back Davison, restore my peace,
My honour, my renown: this single deed
Will cancel all my honest labours past,
With bitterest anguish will my soul devour,
And make me wretched to my latest hour;
Expose to scorn my once respected name,
And brand to ages yet unborn, Eliza's fame.

Scene changes to an apartment in the prison.
DOUGLAS AND EMILY.
DOUGLAS.
Must she then die?

EMILY.
She must; 'tis so determined.

DOUGLAS.
Who brought the fatal news?

EMILY.
The Earls of Kent
And Shrewsbury.

DOUGLAS.
So short a warning! how
Did she receive it?

EMILY.
With a face of joy,
And all the calm composure of a soul,
That, fearless of futurity, looks forward
To promised bliss. O! if a tranquil mind
Is ever, as philosophers have taught us,
The fair companion of sweet innocence,
She must be guiltless, and she must be happy.
But see,—prepared to meet her fate, she comes
In all the solemn dignity of woe:
She seems in meditation deep;—let us retire.

MARY.
(Alone.)
At length the busy scene of life is o'er,
And the kind hand of interposing heaven
Will put a gracious period to my woes,
And take its vengeance here. Elizabeth
Is but the poor deputed instrument
Of wrath supreme, offended at my crimes.
'Tis Bothwell; conscience, why wilt thou recall
The dire remembrance; Bothwell strikes the blow:
Yet mercy may be found; and if a life
Of pain and anguish, hard captivity,
And sorrow, can atone for errors past,
I yet may hope forgiveness from above.

Enter DOUGLAS, EMILY, &c.
MARY.
My Douglas, welcome; welcome my kind friends:
You wonder much to see me thus attired
In proud array: it is the nuptial robe,
Which in my days of happiness I wore,
When France's queen, ere I had known or guilt
Or sorrow, and in this I wish to die.

EMILY.
Permit us, madam, humbly to perform
Our last sad duty.

[They kneel around her.
MARY.
Do not mock me now
With idle pomp. The hour approaches near,
When worldly pride, distinction, rank, and power,
Shall soon be buried with me in the grave,
Where we are equal all;—give me some wine:
Health to my friends! may every earthly blessing,
With length of days, and happier far than mine,
Attend you all! nay, do not weep, rejoice
And triumph with me: toss'd as I have been,
In a tumultuous sea, midst storm and tempest,
Should I not smile, at last to see before me
The peaceful haven of eternal rest?
Farewell, my Douglas; thy benignant hand
Was once stretch'd forth to give me liberty,
And thou e'er since hast been my kind companion,
I never could repay thee; but my death
Will give thee freedom and return the boon.
The little all my foes had left, to you
I have bequeath'd, with these poor trifles; take
And wear them for my sake; now fare ye well:
Let us embrace, and if in aught we've fail'd
In duty to each other, let this seal
Our mutual pardon.
[Kisses them.
Enter THE EARL OF KENT.
Ha! the Earl of Kent.

KENT.
Forgive me, madam, but the time—

MARY.
I know
Your business, sir, and am prepared: that soul
Deserves not immortality, which shrinks
Beneath the stroke of death. But say, my lord,
Will the queen let my faithful servants here
Attend me to the scaffold? 'twill afford
Some little comfort to their drooping hearts
To close these eyes, and take a last adieu.

KENT.
'Tis granted; but remember what I told you.

MARY.
They will not, shall not, do it. One thing more:
May I not hope, my lord, you will permit
A holy priest to minister sweet comfort
To my departing soul.

KENT.
It must not be.
It is her grace's will, that none attend
But he whose office—

MARY.
Whom I must not hear.
It is then as I fear'd: Elizabeth
Deprived me long of every joy on earth,
And now, unkindly, bars my path to heaven;
But I submit.

KENT.
Religion was the cause
Of all your griefs and ours; as your life hath been
A terror to our faith.

MARY.
All gracious heaven!
Have I then lived to hear my foes confess,
That perseverance in thy righteous cause,
Is Mary's worst of crimes? it is enough:
Of earthly crowns I take my glad farewell;
A nobler kingdom, and a brighter crown,
Await on Scotland's queen; for I shall die
A blessed martyr to the faith I love.
Lead on, good Kent, I'll follow thee through death,
To endless life, to glory, and reward.
Enter MELVIL.
Ha! Melvil here.

MELVIL.
Alas! that I should live
To be a witness to this mournful scene!

MARY.
O! Melvil, thou must carry back to Scotland
The tidings of thy queen's disastrous fate.
Bear with thee, too, my blessings on my child:
He has forgot the duty of a son,
But I'm a mother still, and must forgive him.
Tell him, 'midst all my sufferings, all my wrongs,
I have done nought injurious to his kingdom,
His honour, or his rights; but, if he hopes
To keep with joy the fair inheritance
I have bequeath'd him, good Melvil, tell him,
It is the dying mother's last request,
He will support that holy faith, which thus
Hath in my latest hour supported me.
Melvil, farewell for ever; in thy prayers
Remember Mary. Bear me witness all,
That I forgive Elizabeth, as here
I hope for pardon from offended heaven.
Great God of truth, thou searcher of the heart,
O! now look down upon, and hallow mine
With thy acquitting grace: extend thy love,
And smooth my passage to the realms above!