University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Queen's Apartment.
Groups of Musicians, Singers, Dancers. Bothwell's Page habited like Zephyr.
Page.
This is the order. At the queen's first entrance,
In silence lay your garlands at her feet,
Then—rise at waving of my wand. And—you—
[Addressing the different groups.
With lute, and cymbal, and the soft-breath'd reed,
Salute her: you—attemper'd to the music,
Match your clear notes: and, you, my sprightly play-mates,
In cadence to the song and music, mix
Your fleet steps in the many-figur'd dance,
Where Zephyr sports with Flora.

[The Queen and Countess of Argyle enter in state, with a courtly retinue. At her entrance the masque of Zephyr and Flora begins. The Queen on her throne at first looks on the dance, but soon sinks back in seeming woe.]
C. of Ar.
A rare masque!
My gracious sov'reign! deign to view their revels.
See, like gay-coloured clouds that float around
The sun's bright car, their light limbs glance before us,
One gracious look vouchsafe them.

Page.
[To the maskers.]
Here pay homage.
[Kneels to the Queen. They all kneel.
Arise—blend, blend anew the foot and voice!

C. of Ar.
[To the Queen.]
Such revels once had pow'r to fill your fancy
With sprightliest images.

Queen.
[After a long pause.]
Why are ye fled,
Ye days so fair, so fleet, that o'er me gleam'd
Like an enchanted dream? Why fled away
And never know return?

C. of Ar.
Cease, cease the dance—
The queen is troubled.

Queen.
Bear with me, my sister.
Tho' on my ear their song breath'd melody,
Sweet as the night's lone warbler's, tho' the dance
Of fabled fairies on the moon-light dews,
Scarce quaintlier than their circles, yet these sports
But breathe of pleasures past, and on the heart
Press like an added misery. With such revels,
Such winning fantasies, Love woo'd my smile
In the green bow'rs of France. [To the maskers.]

Thanks, gentle friends!
Let not th'untimely woe that dims my day,
Eclipse your cloudless sun-shine Say, fair page,
Or, must I rather name you the wing'd herald
That welcomes in the spring? Say, gentle Zephyr,
Whose is this brave device?

Page.
[Page kneeling presents Bothwell's rhymes.]
Here—royal lady,
These rhymes may haply tell. The crowned Moor,
Who yesterday at tournay, in your presence,
Unhors'd the giant Frenchman, and proclaim'd
Proud Scotland's queen, the peerless flow'r of beauty,
Making the challeng'd field confess her charms,
Now, prostrate at her foot-stool, sues to lay
The envied prize.

Queen.
Such suit was ne'er denied.

[Page goes out.
[Bothwell, as a Moorish king, enters with a stately retinue, kneels, and lays the tournay prize at the Queen's feet.]
Queen.
Rise, gallant Moor! and, if a lady's plume
May grace a warrior's helm, and if you deem
The conqueror repaid, whom Scotland's queen
Her champion names, champion of Scotland's queen,
Earl Bothwell, rise!

Both.
My wealth, my power, my friends,
My life, my soul, command them. May I bid
These from your presence?

Queen.
Wherefore?

Both.
I would fain
Alone address you. 'Tis no idle speech
That claims my sov'reign's ear.

Queen.
Another time.

Both.
Danger and death surround you.

Queen.
I can front them.

Both.
Bothwell shall guard his sov'reign. Royal lady,
The traveller who haunts untrodden wilds
Where fierce beasts prowl, at every step, by day
Casts round his path fear's searching glance, at night
Circles his couch with fire. Full fain would Bothwell
Be to thy day a sun, whose beam before you
Lights all the way: and, ever-more by night
Watch as th'undying flame, that o'er the altar
From profanation and rude touch unblest,
Guards the adored image.

Rizzio enters.
Queen.
Rizzio—
Have you then seen the king?

Riz.
I bear his words.
The public must not hear them.

Both.
[Aside.]
How she greets him!
See—interchange they not familiar smiles?
Insidious sycophant!

Queen.
Go, faithful Rizzio,
Say to that gallant knight, a fitter time
May claim his audience.

Riz.
My Lord Bothwell—

Both.
[Interrupting him.]
Cease
I mark'd each word: you need not echo it:
'Twill not receive new graces from your utterance.
Your champion, [to the Queen.]
at the council, gracious lady,
Will so sustain your throne, that Scotland's queen
Will not, methinks, there chase him from her presence.
Stranger! [To Rizzio.]
beware: the natives of this realm
Are a proud race. Our nobles brook not tamely
The rule and nod of minions.

[Bothwell and Maskers depart.
Queen.
Go, my friends!
Leave me with Rizzio. Gentle Countess, stay:
To thee my soul its inmost thoughts entrusts.
Speak— [To Rizzio.]
nought conceal.

Riz.
'Twill stab you to the heart.

Queen.
Perpetual woe has chill'd it. I had once
A heart that keenly felt. Oh Darnley, Darnley!
Look on me, I entreat you, as a flow'r
On whose fast-fading leaves, ere fully blown,
The snow-storm has descended, and sore shatter'd
In its first fragrance—On its stalk it withers
Reckless of show'r and sunshine—Such I am
Thy sovereign bids thee speak.—Why pause?

Riz.
The king
Is link'd with traitors—and—

Queen.
[interrupting him.]
Bad men deceive him;
Not yet this heart is stone—Why quit me, Darnley?
Why leave the shelter of these guardian arms?
And will he not comply with my request?
Not that lone roof abandon? It disgraces
Alike his state and mine—

Riz.
The king no more
Returns to Holy-rood—

Queen.
What then am I?
Some loathsome object?—But—He loves you not—
Ho! Siward—
Siward enters.
With this man, this skillful horseman,
Alone of all the train who tend my person
Will he at times deign conference. Go, Siward:
With reverence—with entreaty—with submission—
And, is it come to this?—Bad men betray him—
Oh! he is new to life, in the first bloom
Of guileless youth, quick-passion'd, slightly mov'd,
And in the world's dark mazes all unskill'd—
I will not leave him to their wiles a prey—
My prayers, my tears may move him—I must see him.
Once, once his Mary's voice had pow'r to sway him:
Again these arms shall shelter him, again
My Henry on this bosom shall repose.
Say—

Siw.
Whom must I address, my royal mistress?

Queen.
Did I not name your sov'reign? Go, good Siward,
Address the king:
Entreat him to return: say, that all honour,
Proud retinue, and pomp, and royal state
Shall gratulate his coming— [Siward goes.]
This, at least
Will sooth his pride—His pride!—and what am I?
To be rejected, scorn'd!—Ungrateful youth,
Hast thou forgotten all? Thy words, thy vows
Yet vibrate on my heart: each graceful feature
Still warmly glowing there.—Rizzio, you urg'd not
With fondness my request, but coldly bore
A tutor'd speech—

Riz.
No—fervently I urg'd it—
Zeal lent my lip its eloquence—In truth
I could not choose but say, how leave those charms,
Charms, which uncrown'd, unscepter'd, well might move
The masters of the world to wage fierce contest.
I could not choose but say, who hails his sovereign,
The proudest chieftain who draws nigh the throne
Feels honour'd in his homage—Then I dwelt
On Arran, Scotland's heir, whose eagle eye
Gaz'd on the sun, till reason all-o'erpow'r'd
Melted beneath the blaze—While yet I spake,
The king, who first all graciously, methought,
Had bow'd his ear, while from his eye-lid stole
A tear of fond regret, on sudden fir'd
By scornful rage, exclaimed, “Slave, tell thy mistress
“The king prefers yon solitary roof
“To Holy-rood's polluted court, the haunt
“Of low-born minions—

Queen.
Ha!

Riz.
[Aside.]
I'll quit the realm:
Rizzio shall never give her soul displeasure—
I liv'd but in her sun-shine.—Gracious mistress,
Whose kindness ne'er thy servant's pray'r denied,
Now grant my last request— [kneels.]


Queen.
Why kneel? Arise—
You, you alone of all who court my favour
I still have found most loyal.—What thy suit?
What wish you—wealth, or pow'r, or added honour?
Demand it—

Riz.
No—obscurity and peace—
I pray your patience—He, who now entreats you,
Had birth 'mid rocks and mountains, on whose brow
Th'eternal snows have rest, in a green vale
Where shepherds tend their flocks, in the brief season
When summer looks on Alpine solitudes.
Lady, the birth-place of the mountaineer
Is twin'd around the heart—We may, at times,
In the pursuit of wealth and pow'r, forget it,
But 'tis within the heart: and if, perchance,
We hear the horn that call'd the herd to pasture,
Or catch a rude note of the green corn-pipe
That breathes our native melodies, each day
Hour after hour, consum'd by fond regret
We waste away, no more revisiting
The spot where first our naked footstep sported—
Do not deny me: let me there return,
And close the remnant of life's troublous day
In privacy and peace—

Queen.
None left on earth
In whom my soul may blamelessly confide?
Arm'd guards my state surround, beneath my sight
Where'er I gaze obsequious courtiers kneel,
And wide and general as the air, the breath
Of flatterers hails my presence; yet—in these
I trust not. On thy saith I firmly rested:
Wilt thou desert thy sovereign?—

Riz.
Never, never;
Here let me rather die.—

Queen.
What mean you, Rizzio?

Riz.
This—There are men, beneath your palace roof,
Whose daggers will leap forth at sight of Rizzio—
How shall I 'scape their malice?

Queen.
First their daggers,
Shall drink their sovereign's blood—
Siward enters.
Ha! Siward! speak.

Siw.
If, seeming harsh, let not your servant's words
Offend you—I but speak the king's command.
Say—“that my fix'd resolve to her is known,
“My will, in this, unchang'd, unchangeable—
“But—that if Scotland's queen this day, at council,
“Obey my word, and at the assembled states
“Fix on my brow the crown: I will return:
“Else—never.”

Queen.
[Siward goes.

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to a Suburb of the City.
Donald.
Don.
I'm o'er-wearied.
Old age doth lack repose, and other aid
To prop its weakness than this shepherd's crook.
My limbs have lost their suppleness, and truly
'Tis the last time that Donald will be found
A wanderer from the birth-place of his fathers.
My old friends here are gone, the young ones vex
And harass me with questions: and some whisper
I have a demon, and can raise the dead.
Poor silly idlers! here they throng.

Common People enter.
1 Man.
Say, prophet.
Oh you know all.

2 Man.
Tell us—

Bothwell enters disguised, and drives them out.
Both.
Away—begone.

Don.
Why have you driven them hence?

Both.
Because my soul
Seeks commune far beyond their silly natures.
I have long sought you.

Don.
Wherefore?

Both.
I would fain
Hold serious conference with you. You foretold
Proud Beaton's death: and, ere the army's flight,
Our loss at Solway, when the lords refus'd
To serve with Sinclair: and—you truly added—
That our brave king, whose front had fac'd a lion,
James, would not long that day of shame survive.
Time-honour'd prophet—

Don.
I am none. You see
A simple shepherd.

Both.
You are rarely gifted
With that prophetic quality, which brings
The shadowy world, and those that tenant it,
As on a living theatre to act
Their part before you. Hence, you see me here
No common suitor: and, I now entreat you
To lift the veil up from futurity,
And in the dark abyss of days to come,
Point out my fate.

Don.
Why search it out? Enough,
Death and dire woes that make the grave a refuge
Wait thee and all mankind: there too shall Donald
Rest with his fathers, those who never knew
That the prophetic curse hung o'er their child;—
Or never had the day that saw his birth
Their blessing heard. Leave me.

Both.
First yield me answer.

Don.
Misjudging mortal! mark old Donald's warning:
Mark what the burden of the woe laid on him:
'Tis mine to view in youth's fair-opening flow'r,
Th'untimely worm that wastes it. I beheld
My virgin bride, when first I clasp'd her charms,
Pale in her winding sheet. And now my mind
Is dark with horrors, such as thou must feel,
If, ere the hour, thou clearly could'st discern
The ills that wait on life. Hast thou a hope?
Feed on it: does a wish thy pulse-beat quicken?
Indulge it, and thy heart will leap with gladness:
But—whosoe'er thou art, hear, younger man!
The fruits of hoar experience: pass thy days
In trust and resignation on heaven's will,
But seek not to foreknow what God in mercy
Has from man's search conceal'd.—

Both.
Answer, or meet
My vengeful wrath—

Don.
Rash man! of him enquire
Who in the clay whereon he stampt his image
Breath'd a celestial spirit. At his impulse
Alone I speak—

Both.
Then, can'st thou not, hoar seer,
At will call up, retain, dismiss the scenes
That prescient float before you?

Don.
Bid the lake
That spreads its mirror mid the range of mountains
Draw down the golden sun, when the pale moon
And each small star on its dark bosom twinkles:
Or back recall the feaster and gay bridegroom
When the slow train of burial o'er it flings
Its melancholy shadow—Shade on shade
Succeeds, and passes off—Thus 'tis with me;
My mind is as the mirror of that water:
Before me, forms in swift succession glide,
And whispers of the names of men unknown:
Some pass away forgotten, some remain
Part clear, in part confus'd; others there are
Of that impressive nature, that whene'er
If but by chance once more I catch a whisper
Of names so syllabled, or view in life
A glance of those in vision, the whole scene
With all th'attendant train of weal and woe
Perforce starts up before me.

Both.
Has the name
Of Bothwell, ere so whisper'd, caught thine ear?

Don.
It rests not on the memory.

Both.
Has thine eye
In vision of the future e'er beheld
These features? [Unveils himself.]


Don.
Hence—begone—dark vision, hence!

Both.
Why groan you? What my fate?

Don.
Why, man of blood,
Why steal you forth in silence and dark midnight?
An eye from heav'n beams on thy secret way.
The mine is laid—is sprung. Saw you the blaze?
The pale moon gaz'd upon it, and withdrew
Curtain'd in blood. Heard you the roar—the crash
As of infernal thunder that disjoins
Earth's deep foundations? The lone roof, the rock
Whereon its strength found rest, in air are vanish'd.
There dies the king.

Both.
By hell, he pictures forth
My secret thought.

Don.
Blow the soft flute—with dance, and song, and feast,
Bring in the royal bride. So young, so fair;
Twice, twice a widow! yet so young, so fair!
See how her auburn locks turn silvery grey:
Untimely chang'd! see, how the scaffold glows
With royal blood. Where art thou, Bothwell?—fled?
Thou shield a queen! thou canst not save thyself!
Hence, fugitive! hence, pirate!

Both.
Wretch! be silent.

Don.
Thy lone sail flaps upon a slumberous ocean.
Speed, they o'ertake thee.

Both.
I will hear no more.
Peace, madman! thou wert brib'd to vex my soul.

Don.
Where is the bridegroom now?

Both.
What bridegroom! who?

Don.
They know him not, a stranger to their realm.
But I know Bothwell's features in that captive
Chain'd in a dungeon, raving.

Both.
[Drawing his dagger.]
Madman—hence.
[Drives him out.
Thy grey hairs stand between thee and my vengeance.
Ne'er shall the wanderings of a frantic mind
Turn Bothwell's spirit from its fixt intent.

[Exit.