Freely, with reverence and humility,
My thought as did that letter, being of mind
At one therewith; but she would give no ear;
Nor is there force in counsel or man’s wit
To avert this ill she binds upon herself,
Who breaks the bonds in twain that hold her friends,
And fetters her own feet with gyves of steel,
When she hath need of them to stand or flee
Before the face of peril multiform
That lightens on us flamelike: you, my lord,
Whose love she hath proven, are not of me to learn
The immediate feature of it.
HERRIES.
Alas, not I;
I have taken too much note thereof, and stand
Too near its fangs to live of them unscathed,
Except I make haste hence.
MELVILLE.
What haste, my lord?
HERRIES.
I have spoken with her of their purpose blown
From lip to lip already on men’s breath,
To loose the bonds that bind her lover yet
By witness of the lady of Buccleuch,
Who shall proclaim herself his paramour
And precontracted to him by promise-plight,
To prove his wife no lawful wife, but bound,
Will she or no, and love him not or love,
To sue divorce from him; if all this fail,
Then by remonstrance of their kindred blood
Found some four cousinships away, this bond
Shall melt or break that parts him from the queen.
MELVILLE.
Why, ere his marriage with the Lady Jane
She had her dispensation from the Pope,
For the blood mixed between them, of all bars
Which might have maimed it with impediment.
HERRIES.
So had she, but they think to cover it
As with a veil of invalidity
Pretexted for pretence, or with dumb show
Darkly disclaimed; this shall not cumber them;
And they will buy compliance and goodwill
Of Huntley to his sister’s putting off
By restoration of his forfeit lands.
MELVILLE.
All tongues i’ the land will as one mouth of fire
Cry death and shame against it.
HERRIES.
So said I.
MELVILLE.
So said you to her?
HERRIES.
I said so; whereat she,
As ‘twere half smiling in a wondering shame,
Half mourning to be guiltlessly misjudged,
With fervent eyes’ fall and with scornful lips
Protests me, never had she thought of it.
Wherefore I hold it ill to tarry here.
MELVILLE.
Your wisdom shall do well to spare no speed,
But get it gone from eyeshot of them both.
HERRIES.
I know it; yet would I plead again with her
For pity and honour of the imperilled state,
That should be shaken with her fall to death
And the crown shattered into shards of gold
For as a wolf anhungered and awaked
That long hath slept and starved, with foodless dreams
Assuaging its blunt fangs through bloodless hours,
The common people, that in dumb dim rest,
With heartless hopes assuaging its blind heart,
Hath fed for ages on itself asleep,
Shows now the keen teeth and the kindled eyes
Of ravening heads innumerable, that gape
And glare about the wide ways of the world,
Seeking their meat of God; and if he fail,
Then of the devil that burns in minds of men
Rebellious, whom their heat of heart eats up
Till the fire fasten on authority
To lay red hands of ruin on all state
And leave in ashes empire; as of late
This Ket in England, and his like that swarm
At heel of the new creeds in Lutheran lands
To pluck the sun out of the heaven of rule,
And leave men dark and kingless. Hath not Knox
Struck with his fangs of speech on monarchy
No less than on the Church that first was stung,
Preaching for all men knowledge equally
And prostitute and perilous freedom shared
With all blear eyes, brute mouths, and unwashed hands,
That lust for change and take all fires for light,
Except the sun’s wherein their fathers walked?
And shall not these at any breach break in
That flaws the sea-wall which forbade their sea
To drown all banks that bound it? She will make
Of all that lived in Scotland hers and ours
A ruin and republic of strewn wrecks,
Ranks rent, bonds broken, all things orderless,
A commonwealth of dead men’s bones and dung,
Dust, mire, and blood, and one red rank of beasts
That rage and revel in equality.
MELVILLE.
’Tis true, the commons are as waters chafed
Since this wind blew amongst them: wave by wave
It lifts their heads up, and the murmuring air
Breathes hard and blackens with the blast of change.
HERRIES.
And were none touched with danger but herself,
This yet were pity enough for tears of blood,
So fair she is and less by place than kind
Royal, so high and so assured of spirit,
So full of all things all men love or fear,
Heart’s light and fire, a soul born winged, with eyes
That mate the sun’s eye and the lightning’s; yea,
It were past count of pity, past men’s thought,
That she should fall for love’s light sake self-slain.
MELVILLE.
There were one way to serve her that would be
Most thankless, being thankworthiest; but none else.
HERRIES.
That were no way for feet that would not walk
Red as her enemies’ did, whose passage shook
With its near sound her life and fame; such ways
Let Morton take or Maitland’s weaponed wit,
Whose words are swords.
MELVILLE.
It may be so they will.
HERRIES.
Death?
MELVILLE.
Nay, who knows when death may come?
HERRIES.
Why, they
Who strike the spur into his fleshless side,
Who prick him forward with their craft for goad,
Or put for sword their hatred in his hand.
They have done deeds of deadlier policy
Than make submissive show toward Bothwell here,
Then snare and slay him or put the queen in ward:
Would they do this they might be serviceable
But perilous must be, putting hand to work
That treads nigh treason though for loyalty.
MELVILLE.
Whoso may know their mind, it is not I.
HERRIES.
She hath sent for Murray hither; in his eye
We may take note which way their faction looks.
If yet toward violence and red-handed craft,
This mood of hers will strip her for their strokes
Naked, and leave us handless that would fight
On her just side against them. God mend all!
Enter the Queen, Bothwell, Seyton, the Maries, and Attendants
QUEEN.
The wind has moved my blood like wine; I am full
Even to the heart’s root of its spirit of life.
Flew not my hawk the last flight well, that sent
The tumbling hern down from her highe
st? I think
You have none better. Is our brother come?
SEYTON.
He is now alighting, madam.
QUEEN.
By this hand,
I would when we must ‘light from horse we might
Take wing instead, and so what time we live
Live ever at glad speed save when we sleep.
It points and edges the dull steel of life
To feel the blood and brain in us renew
By help of that life lifting us, and speed
That being not ours is mixed with us and serves.
I would hold counsel and wage war and reign
Not in walled chambers nor close pens of state,
But or in saddle or at sea, my steed
As a sea-wave beneath the wind and me,
Or the sea serving as a bitted steed
That springs like air and fire. Time comes, they say,
When we love rest, house-keeping sloth, and calms;
To me I think it will not come alive.
HERRIES.
Madam, I would change yet one word with you
Ere I go hence or others take your ear.
QUEEN.
So shall you, sir; yet is my heart too light,
And its live blood too merry from the chase,
And all my life too full of the air of joy
Whereon it mounts up falcon-like for prey
And hovers at its wings’ width ere it strike,
To give wise words wise welcome; yet what grace
I may to your grave counsels will I show
And modesty of audience. Tell my brother
I shortly will receive him.
Exeunt all but the Queen and Herries.
My good lord,
It is for that old honour and true love
I bear your high name and your flawless faith
That yet mine ear makes way now for your words,
In trust they will not wound it for its pains
With any tuneless or intemperate breath.
HERRIES.
Had I no heart, or in the heart I have
No love to serve you, madam, and no faith,
I had parted hence without more toil of tongue
Or strife of speech unpalatable and harsh
In ears made wide for music; but in me
Is heart enough to burn with fire of pain,
If not to lighten with that fire their eyes
For whose sake it consumes me, when I see
Danger and death masked as true men and bold
Attend about them with sheathed knives in hand
And shut mouths as of serpents. Let me not
Incense again your flame of spirit and scorn
With faint and void reiterance of dead words
That spent in vain their spirit before: I speak
Not now so much to move you as would God
I had the might to move, but of myself
Rather to save my soul of faith alive
And my deep heart of duty toward your grace
By speech though fruitless and by love though lost
That will not pass forth silent and give way
To loud-tongued ruin that shall speak too high
For ears to close against it. Queen of Scots,
Lady that have the loftiest life in hand
Even yet that ever was of queen on earth,
Last hope of men that hope through you in God,
Last comfort of his Church, light of his lamp
That men have nigh blown out with blasts of night;
O you to whose fair face and hand uplift
The treble-kingdomed islands should turn back
Out of the shadow of storm to follow them
And in the shadow of faith instead lie down
Beneath the wings that covered your crowned head,
Even hers that brood above her fold and yours,
The Church your mother’s, that by no hand else
Looks yet to gather three lands in and save -
Who have the heart and the eye and the hour for this
Which to none other God may give again
So as you have them - you that should be writ
In all the royal records of the world
Saviour, the light and the right hand of God
Shown in a woman, to bring back and build
What was blown down or shed as dust on the air -
You that have spirit and mind to apprehend
And to that apprehension put swift hand,
Nor slow of soul nor fearful - you, our queen,
And England’s heir, that should make higher on earth
The name of Scot than any star in heaven,
And on the cleft growth of two thorny stems
Bid one rose flower of Catholic royalty
Not to be plucked or trampled - O, will you,
So great, so fair and fearless as you are,
That were you no queen, or such other one
As no such high cause calls on, you would seem
Not less a thing made to heroic end,
A creature crowned and armed by God to bear
His witness to his work, and in man’s eye
Stand signal-wise lighting the beaconed sea -
Will you put all this as a garment off
And change it like a vesture? By your life
Which is the life of this land’s majesty,
And your high soul which is our spirit of hope,
Slay not all these; help them that trust in you;
Help God, lest we believe him for your sake
Ill-minded toward us for our sin, to turn
This empire to a populous wilderness,
A riotous desert where things vile are crowned,
And high made low and low things set on high,
And rule trod under with foul feet and bare,
And kingdom parcelled by hard hands and red;
Pity this people; give not up your realm
To its own madness that takes fire at yours
And lights its ruin at your own ruin, to run
By that blind light darkling to death and hell;
Cast not your name down under foot of men
For such ill cause as loveless love that is
Light lord of foolish women, or such will
As wherewith men self-slaughtered gird themselves.
For shame and pity and peril shall be they
Who shall attend and wed you to your will,
And the ring broken of the kingdom’s peace
That is yet whole and circular as a crown
Shall be the new ring on your wedded hand.
QUEEN.
Have I not said I never thought of it?
HERRIES.
I but beseech you keep from thought of it,
Or from such show as puts it in men’s minds.
QUEEN.
If this be all your counsel or your care,
You crave but what you have; I have given no cause
By favour shown to faith and loyal hearts
For the evil-witted world to tax me of love.
Twice have you had mine ear now to this tale,
And thrice I pray you that you seek it not.
HERRIES.
I shall no more. God keep your grace in joy!
Enter Bothwell and Murray
QUEEN.
Good morrow, brother; and you, my lord, good day,
Since you go hence.
BOTHWELL.
Goes my lord from us yet?
HERRIES.
Even now I take my leave. Farewell, my lords,
And God be with your counsels.
Exit.
BOTHWELL.
Nay, he shall.
The queen was fain to have your voice, my lord,
Ere she go back to the distempered town.
MURRAY.
That shall she have, sir.
QUEEN.
Brother, we hear word
/>
How the good town is troubled of lewd men
With libels writ and hung about the streets
That in our servants’ name deface our own
With fierce invention: wherefore I desired
Your counsel with my lord here and good help
For satisfaction of well-willing men.
MURRAY.
Even such will tell you it mislikes the town
That Lennox, as they say, should be debarred
From entrance save with six men and no more
To hold his cause up on the trial day,
And the main witness on his part refused
As under charge of treason for his words
Set forth in writing on the Tolbooth gates:
This makes them doubt of justice to be done
And brood or babble of devised delay,
With tongues and minds diverse and dangerous.
QUEEN.
What,
Shall one proclaimed our traitor pass unscathed
To bear again false witness, for whose sake
The ports are guarded, and the skipper marked
For death who helps him from this kingdom forth
To mock the judgment whence he stands attaint
Of foregone treason, and must now stand free,
And the law loose him and receive his word
As a true man’s and taintless? What are they
Whom by such witness Lennox would impeach
Besides my lord here who shall answer him?
MURRAY.
James Balfour, and your outland serving-folk,
Sebastian, Joseph Rizzio, with two French,
John of Bordeaux, and Francis, of your train.
QUEEN.
They shall have trial, and answer it.
MURRAY.
‘Twere best
They did so soonest; time grows full of tongues;
There was one late went through the streets by night
With four or five accompanied for guard
That would let none take knowledge of him, crying
Of his own guilt most lamentably on God,
Lord, open heaven and pour down of thy wrath
Vengeance on me and them that have cut off
The innocent blood; whom the chief magistrates
Have seized and cast into the four thieves’ pit;
But still his cry hangs in the common ear.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 221
