Mary Stuart: A Tragedy

SCENE X.

      ELIZABETH alone.

   Oh! servitude of popularity!
   Disgraceful slavery! How weary am I
   Of flattering this idol, which my soul
   Despises in its inmost depth! Oh! when
   Shall I once more be free upon this throne?
   I must respect the people's voice, and strive
   To win the favor of the multitude,
   And please the fancies of a mob, whom naught
   But jugglers' tricks delight. O call not him
   A king who needs must please the world: 'tis he
   Alone, who in his actions does not heed
   The fickle approbation of mankind.
   Have I then practised justice, all my life
   Shunned each despotic deed; have I done this
   Only to bind my hands against this first,
   This necessary act of violence?
   My own example now condemns myself!
   Had I but been a tyrant, like my sister,
   My predecessor, I could fearless then
   Have shed this royal blood:—but am I now
   Just by my own free choice? No—I was forced
   By stern necessity to use this virtue;
   Necessity, which binds e'en monarch's wills.
   Surrounded by my foes, my people's love
   Alone supports me on my envied throne.
   All Europe's powers confederate to destroy me;
   The pope's inveterate decree declares me
   Accursed and excommunicated. France
   Betrays me with a kiss, and Spain prepares
   At sea a fierce exterminating war;
   Thus stand I, in contention with the world,
   A poor defenceless woman: I must seek
   To veil the spot in my imperial birth,
   By which my father cast disgrace upon me:
   In vain with princely virtues would I hide it;
   The envious hatred of my enemies
   Uncovers it, and places Mary Stuart,
   A threatening fiend, before me evermore!

      [Walking up and down, with quick and agitated steps.

   Oh, no! this fear must end. Her head must fall!
   I will have peace. She is the very fury
   Of my existence; a tormenting demon,
   Which destiny has fastened on my soul.
   Wherever I had planted me a comfort,
   A flattering hope, my way was ever crossed
   By this infernal viper! She has torn
   My favorite, and my destined bridegroom from me.
   The hated name of every ill I feel
   Is Mary Stuart—were but she no more
   On earth I should be free as mountain air.

      [Standing still.

   With what disdain did she look down on me,
   As if her eye should blast me like the lightning!
   Poor feeble wretch! I bear far other arms,
   Their touch is mortal, and thou art no more.

      [Advancing to the table hastily, and taking the pen.

   I am a bastard, am I? Hapless wretch,
   I am but so the while thou liv'st and breath'st.
   Thy death will make my birth legitimate.
   The moment I destroy thee is the doubt
   Destroyed which hangs o'er my imperial right.
   As soon as England has no other choice,
   My mother's honor and my birthright triumphs!

      [She signs with resolution; lets her pen then fall,
      and steps back with an expression of terror. After
      a pause she rings.