LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR

      I

                     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 didst part the clouds of earth,
                     My torpor to reprove!

      II

                     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.

      III

                     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,
                     Save those who to my sorrows lend
                     Tears due unto their own.

      IV

                     To-night the church-tower bells will ring
                     Through these wild 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 to watch and weep,
                     By wounds that may not heal.

      V

                     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
                     This bitterness of woe.

      VI

                     Yet how? — for I, if there be truth
                     In the world's voice, was passing fair;
                     And beauty, for confiding youth,
                     Those shocks of passion can prepare
                     That kill the bloom before its time;
                     And blanch, without the owner's crime,
                     The most resplendent hair.

      VII

                     Unblest distinction! showered on me
                     To bind a lingering life in chains:
                     All that could quit my grasp, or flee,
                     Is gone; — but not the subtle stains
                     Fixed in the spirit; for even here
                     Can I be proud that jealous fear,
                     Of what I was remains.

      VIII

                     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,
                     О keep them innocent!

      IX

                     Farewell desire of human aid,
                     Which abject mortals vainly 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.

      X

                     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!

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