University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Mary, Murray.
Mur.
Laying aside all ceremonious forms,
Anxious and breathless, I presume to come,
At an unusual hour, to thy apartments.
Oh what a night is this!

Ma.
What would'st thou now?

Mur.
What hast thou done? Who thus has counsell'd thee?
In the recesses of thy palace now
Canst thou securely sit, while armed men
And military cries surround thy consort?

Ma.
But whence this boldness in thee? ... All will see
To-morrow that I've robb'd him of no power,
Except the power of injuring himself.

Mur.
Whate'er the motive, the effect is monstrous,
'Tis cruel, terrible, and unexampled;
And far more raises fury in the people
Than strikes them with alarm. Now, well reflect:
There are perhaps who deceive thee: perhaps I come
In time to re-enlighten thee. To us,
From guilty satellites that inundate
All quarters of the city, in their hands
Bearing lugubrious torches and drawn swords,
Mischief alone can rise. What do these troops
Around the rock where stands the royal dwelling,
Rank'd in a circle, with ferocious looks
Keeping each man at distance?

Ma.
For my deeds
Am I accountable to thee? Correct
Are my designs. They shall be known to those
Who ought to know them. Dost thou place thy trust
In the audacious people?

Mur.
In myself
I trust alone, and in that God of truth
Of whom I am the minister. From me
Life thou may'st take, but not sincerity,
And free and lofty speech ... Beside thy spouse
Destroy me if thou wilt; but hear me first.

Ma.
What words are these? oh heavens! ... and do I wish
My husband's blood? and who with this can charge me? ...

Mur.
Oh spectacle of woe!—The unwarlike stag
Pants in the bloody and ferocious claws
Of the infuriate tygress ... See, already
She tears him piecemeal ... Tremulous he falls,
He dies, ... and was ... Ah! who forbears from weeping?
—Oh flash of lightning! What eternal ray
Bursts on my dazzled sight? Mortal I am!—
The dense and horrible clouds, that, in their womb
Of pitchy blackness, hold the future buried,
Behold, in volumes of sulphureous smoke
They roll away, and rapidly they vanish ...
What do I see? I see, ah yes, that traitor
Reeking with blood-drops yet. Perfidious traitor!
Reeking with sacred and tremendous blood,
Thou liest in the widow'd bed yet warm!
Ah, impious lady! canst thou suffer this? ...

Ma.
What voice is that? What accents do I hear?
Oh heaven! what saidst thou? ... Presages of terror ...
He hears me not; an unaccustomed flame
Burns in his rolling eye-balls ...

Mur.
Even now,
Thou second Ahab's daughter, do I hear
The horrid howlings; I already see
The bloody jaws of the infuriate dogs,
By whom thy impure entrails shall be torn.—
But thou, who sit'st upon the usurp'd throne,
Son of iniquity! liv'st thou and reignest?

Ma.
His bosom labours with a threatening God! ...
Oh heaven! ah! hear me ...

Mur.
No, thou livest not:
Behold the scythe appointed to mow down
The impious harvest. Death, I hear thy shriek,
And thy invisible approach I feel.
Oh vengeance of my God! of every crime
How dost thou take account! ... Heaven triumphs: see,
See the perfidious Jezebel is torn
E'en from the arms of her adulterous husband ...
Behold the traitors are betray'd ... Oh joy!
They are dissever'd ... lacerated ... slain.

Ma.
Thou mak'st me tremble ... Ah! ... of whom speak'st thou? ...
I faint ...

Mur.
But what new sight? ... Oh gloomy scene!
Around a dismal scaffold I behold
Sable and sanguinary ornaments! ...
And who is this preparing to ascend it?
Oh! art thou she? Dost thou, so proud and dainty,
Bend to the cleaving axe thy lofty neck?
Another sceptred dame inflicts on thee
The mighty blow. The faithless blood spouts forth;
And lo, a thirsty spectre drinks it all
To the last drop!—Ah! would the angry heavens
Be satisfied with this? But, comet-like,
Thou drawest after thee a fatal track;
A race of wretched, proud, and abject kings
Spring from the womb of the expiring lady.
The just and horribly avenging ire
Of heaven's Almighty Monarch runs transfused
E'en with their life-blood ...

Ma.
... Wretched that I am! ...
What light, oh minister of heaven, inspires thee?
Ah! cease ... ah! cease ... I die ...

Mur.
Who calls me now? ...
In vain from my affrighted eyes would'st thou
Chace this tremendous sight ... I see already
In the thick gloom the sceptred spectres throng.—
Oh! who art thou, that almost mak'st me shed
Tears of compassion? ... Ah! above thy head
The axe is lifted: now, alas! it falls.
I see thy sever'd and thy once-crown'd head
Roll'd in the dust! ... And art thou unavenged? ...
Alas! thou art: For thy distinguish'd head
Long had been due to a more ancient vengeance.—
How many lesser royal shades I see
Fight, fear, retreat, discomfited, in turns!
Oh lineage, fatal as thou art to others,
Destructive to thyself! For thee the streams
Are dyed in blood ... And dost thou merit it?
Ah, fly thou, to contaminate no more
This region with thy footsteps: go, and seek,
E'en in the breast of ignominy seek,
Connatural refuge: with idolaters,
Thy fit companions, herd: there drag along,
The throne's disgrace, the laughing-stock of men,
Scorn'd e'en in wretchedness, opprobrious days.

Ma.
What do I hear? ... Alas! ... what unknown power
Have thy prophetic accents o'er my heart!

Mur.
Oh lofty transports of my troubled mind,
Of rapt imagination, of my full,
My labouring, yet illuminated spirit,
Whither have ye impell'd me? ... What inspired? ...
Where have ye led me? ... What have I beheld? ...
To whom have spoken? ... Am I in the palace? ...
The palace! ... Oh abode of grief and death,
I fly from thee for ever.

Ma.
Stop ...

Mur.
Oh lady,
Say, hast thou changed thy purpose?

Ma.
Wretched me! ...
I scarcely seem to breathe ... must I then give
Means to my foes to injure me?

Mur.
No, thou
Should'st take the means of injuring from others;
But first discover who it is that injures.
For thy excuse I'm willing to believe
That Bothwell is not fully known to thee:
Such of that miscreant are the enormities,
That they were e'en sufficient to appal
The world's most harden'd profligates.

Ma.
Oh heaven!
Should he betray me! Yet 'twere best to doubt—
Then go to Henry instantly thyself,
And in my name, let Argyle be thy guide.
Provided that he promises on oath
Not to depart from Scotland till 'twixt us
Our mutual variances are cleared, I swear,
Ere morn, of all my troops to rid the plain.
Go, fly; obtain but this, and then return.

SCENE THE SECOND.

Mary.
Ma.
What fear oppresses me! Alas! ... if ever ...
But am I guilty? Thou, who knowest all things,
Knowest that I am not—Yet in my heart
I never had more horrible forebodings ...
What can they mean? ... And from this Murray's lips
What fulminating imprecations roll'd!—
A night so pregnant with dismay as this
I never knew till now ...

SCENE THIRD.

Mary, Bothwell.
Ma.
What hast thou done?
Where hast thou dragg'd me? Say, is there yet time
For reparation? Bid thy men disperse ...

Both.
What! hast thou once more changed thy sentiments?

Ma.
I never bade thee ... thou first dared'st ...

Both.
Yes,
I dared propose to thee a gentler means,
For the obtaining of thy end, than any
That thou contrived'st: and thou gav'st to me
The care of these, which I accepted. Now
Henry has seen my squadrons; he has heard
The name of Bothwell: to and fro he runs
Along the galleries, and for desperate fight
Prepares himself. Distinctly I beheld him,
By the glare of lurid torches, come and go,
Furiously chafe, and make parade of valour.
The thunder of his menaces descends
E'en to the plain. 'Twere easy to recall
The troops; but who could afterwards appease
The rage of Henry? Of myself I speak not:
I were a trifling victim (if indeed
I could suffice) in such a cause as this:
But what would be thy fate? Henry incensed ...

Ma.
Ah speak, did Murray not this instant go
From hence to Henry? ...

Both.
I beheld him not—
Say, has that lying demagogue again
Conferr'd with thee?

Ma.
Ah yes, too certainly! ...
Although the minister of a hostile sect,
What has he not reveal'd to me? Oh heaven!
Fatal prognostics from his lips I heard.
Myself dispatch'd him as a messenger
To my unyielding husband: may his words
Avail, as they have penetrated mine,
To penetrate his heart! Who knows? such means
Oft has the invisible heavenly will elected:
Perhaps Murray is his instrument. Go, run;
See that the king speaks with him.

Both.
Murray, foe
Of our religion, at his will aspires
To sway the feeble mind of Henry; hence
He feigns to be his friend. Arch-hypocrite!
His only passion is to head a party.
The most determined of the rebels stand
Already arm'd; they want a man to raise
The standard of revolt; and he will raise it.
What are their schemes, thou knowest;—thou who, once
Fall'n in their hands, heardest them dictate to thee
Their haughty and injurious laws; and I,
Who freed thee from them, too well recollect.—
Now, while I breathe, I swear that thou shalt not
Stoop to these men: to disobey thee now
Is loyalty. All method of approach
To every man is absolutely closed;
And he who would attempt it, forfeits life.
In vain the most devoted of thy friends
Would there present himself; e'en in thy name
In vain would Murray go there ...

Ma.
What! hast thou
Ventured so far? ...

Both.
I dare, and I will save thee:
I'm perfectly aware of what I do.
If thou dost not now openly convict
Henry of guilt, since thou hast offer'd him
An open insult, thou thyself art ruin'd.

Ma.
Let come what may come: I had rather die
Than bring a blot upon my fame ... obey;
Thy overweening zeal may injure me:
Then quickly go, and bid the bands disperse ...
But what do I behold? ... What horrid blaze! ...
Ah! ... what a crash! Trembles the opening earth ...

Both.
Oh! ... from the bursting clouds devouring flames
Descend from heaven!

Ma.
The opening doors fly back ...

Both.
Oh! what a roaring in the smoky air!

Ma.
Ah! whither shall I fly? ...

SCENE THE FOURTH.

Murray, Mary, Bothwell.
Mur.
Where canst thou fly?

Ma.
Murray! ... what means it? ... Thou ... return'st already?

Mur.
And art thou here? Go, see thy murder'd husband! ...

Ma.
Alas! ... what do I hear? ...

Both.
Murder'd! and how?
By whom?

Mur.
Miscreant! by thee!

Both.
What dar'st thou say? ...

Ma.
Oh heaven! is Henry slain? ... But how? ... I heard
The terrible report! ...

Mur.
But ... thou art safe.
The house is blown up where thy husband sleeps,
Even from its foundation! He has found
A horrible tomb amid its ghastly ruins!

Ma.
What is it that I hear? ...

Both.
Assuredly,
Henry himself, to the collected powder
Stored mid-way up the hill, in desperate fit
Set fire.

Mur.
Thee, Bothwell, every one proclaims
Thee, traitor.

Ma.
Sacrilegious! hast thou dared? ...

Both.
Behold my head; 'tis forfeited at once
To him that proves me guilty of this deed.
I ask no favour at thy hand, oh queen;
But strict, entire, and expeditious justice.

Mur.
Himself he slew not. Base malecontents slew him ...

Ma.
Oh horrible suspicion! Pang far worse
Than that of any death! ... Eternal blot! ...
Oh cruel grief! ... —Now quickly from my eyes
Let each withdraw. The truth shall be discover'd;
And let him tremble, whosoe'er he be,
The atrocious author of a deed like this.
For vengeance now, and nothing else, I live.

Both.
Oh queen, thy sorrow I indeed respect;
But for myself I tremble not.

Mur.
Alas!
Hast thou a cause to tremble?—On this spot,
Till heaven's avenging thunderbolt is hurl'd,
The guiltless only have just cause of fear.