Mary Stuart: A Tragedy

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.