[Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the Eve of a New Year]

“Smile of the Moon—for so I name
That silent greeting from above,
A gentle flash of light that came
From her whom drooping Captives love;
Or art thou of still higher birth,
Thou that did’st part the clouds of earth
My torpor to reprove!

“Bright boon of pitying Heaven—alas,
I may not trust thy placid cheer,
Pondering that Time to-night will pass
The threshold of another Year;
For years to me are sad and dull;
My very moments are too full
Of hopelessness and fear.

“And yet the soul-awakening gleam
That struck perchance the farthest cone
Of Scotland’s rocky wilds did seem
To visit me, and me alone;
Me unapproached by any Friend
But those who to my sorrows lend
Tears due unto their own.

“Meek effluence—that while I trod
With downcast eye, in narrow space
Did’st vivify the wintry sod
As if an Angel filled the place
With softened light—thou wert a touch
Even to my heart of hearts—and such
Is every gift of grace.

“Yet wherefore did it leave the sky,
And wherefore did it seem to speak
Of something bordering all too nigh
On what full oft I dare to seek?
A happier order for my doom,
A favoured æra when the gloom
At length will cleave and break.

“To-night the church-tower bells shall ring
Through these wide realms a festive peal;
To the new year a welcoming,
A tuneful offering for the weal
Of happy millions lulled in sleep,
While I am forced lone watch to keep
By wounds that may not heal.

“Born all too high—by wedlock raised
Still higher—to be cast thus low!
Would that mine eyes had never gazed
On aught of more ambitious show
Than the sweet flowerets of the fields!
—It is my royal State that yields
The bitterness of woe.

“A woman rules my prison’s key;
A Sister Queen against the bent
Of law and holiest sympathy
Detains me doubtful of the event;
Great God who feel’st for my distress,
My thoughts are all that I possess;
O keep them innocent!

“Farewell for ever human aid
Which abject Mortals blindly court!
By friends deceived, by foes betrayed,
Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport,
Nought but the world-redeeming Cross
Is able to supply my loss,
My burthen to support.

“Hark! the death-note of the year,
Sounded by the Castle clock!”
From her sunk eyes a stagnant Tear
Stole forth, unsettled by the shock;
But oft the woods renewed their green
Ere the tired head of Scotland’s Queen
Reposed upon the block.