MARY STEWART;

A DRAMATIC POEM.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-The Presence Chamber in Windsor Castle.

ELIZABETH enters, with her Train. Walks to a Chair

of State. MELVIL kneels, and rises.

Eliz. You are welcome, Melvil.

Mel. God save your Highness!

Eliz. How fares the Queen of Scots, our much-loved sister?

Mel. As captive queens are wont.

Eliz. Still in the castle of Lochleven isle ?
Mel. Still there she languishes. Alas! to her
Day after day forms but one tedious night
Of gloomy suffering, with scarce a hope

Of dawn, unless your Highness interpose
In her behalf. O! did you but behold
That beauteous, fading form-

Eliz. And is that form as fair as rumour says?
Mel. She is so fair-words cannot tell how fair!
Eliz. Describe this paragon.

Mel. Describe!

Eliz. Try, try; I'll question you.

Mel. It is in vain.

Eliz. Her brow?

Mel. 'Tis seldom seen, save when the zephyr parts

The raven lock, that as in envy shades it.

Eliz. What foolery!

Her eye?

[Aside.

Mel. A middle 'tween the falcon's and the dove's.
Eliz. Her cheek?

Mel. An opening wild rose, of the faintest blush.
In each the slightest smile a dimple shows,—
The Scylla and Charybdis of the Loves,

In which unwary hearts sad shipwreck meet.
Eliz. How sounds her voice?

Mel. In speech, gentle as when the west wind's breath

Sighs through the new-downed willow leaves; in song
Mellifluous, full, then floating,-floating soft
As Echo answering Philomela's plaint.

Eliz. And does she touch the harp with equal skill? Mel. The chords, though struck with careless sweep, speak love,

Like Cupid's wing along Apollo's lyre;

And with the notes so sweet is blent her voice
In magic harmony, that none may know
Which is the voice, and which the silver string.
Eliz. Good, good: That she excels

(Although your

words sound more like love than truth)

In each external grace, we know:-But tell me,

Is she much versed in languages?

Mel. She speaks the tongues of Scotland and of
France

With equal grace: Italia's is her sport:
Each dialect her people use she knows;
And to the humblest she so suits her phrase,
That rustic maids, at first abashed, look up,
Thinking they hear a sister-cottager.

Eliz. And is she liberal, as becomes a queen?
Mel. Her hand is Heaven; her charity

On the receiver falls darkling, like dew

On flowers, unseen from whence, yet weighing down, With overloaded cup, their bending stalks.

Eliz. But is she just, as generous? What she gives Belongs not to herself, but to the state.

Mel. She has she had her own, the royal lands.
Eliz. But tell me, Melvil,

Does your fair mistress poise the scales of justice
With even hand-like me, with steady hand?

Mel. Yes, she is just; but yet-mercy too oft
Inclines the balance wrong. I have beheld
This beauteous Queen half kneel, with eyes suffused,
Praying her curly chancellor to stop

The warrant winged with death; and she would lay
Her hand on his, with softly-pleading pressure,
Until she saw his fixed regard relax

Into a smile contending with a frown.

But if a judge (and she was eagle-eyed)

Were found perverting justice 'gainst the poor,
Her look how changed! Not the famed censor's brow,
When dashing from the tablet venal names,

Was e'er more sternly knit.

Eliz. Which is more fair, the Queen of Scots or I? Mel. She within Scotland's realm, in England you. Eliz. To-morrow here we shall concert

What should be done for your much-injured mistress,
Our dearest sister. Farewell.- [Exit MELVIL.

Aye, let her pine until her radiant eyes
Sink lustreless, till fades the rose's glow.

No more shall silent crowds hang on her smile;
Bent o'er the watery mirror that surrounds her,
Herself shall be her sole idolater:

There to her answering image she may pour
The unavailing incense of her tears.—