e Verdict-voice,
And Mary's pardon is seal'd!

As a bird from the mesh of the fowler freed
With wild wing shatters the air,
From shelter to shelter, betray'd, she flees,
Or lured to some treacherous lair,
And the vulture-cry of the enemy nigh,
And the heavens dark with despair!

Bright lily of France, by the storm stricken low,
A sunbeam thou seest through the shade
Where Order and Peace are throned 'neath the smile
Of a royal sisterly Maid:--
For hope in the breast of the girl has her nest,
Ever trusting, and ever betray'd.

Brave womanly heart that, beholding the shore,
Beholds her own grave unaware,--
Though the days to come their shame should unveil
Yet onward she still would dare!
Though the meadows smile with statesmanly guile,
And the cuckoo's call is a snare!

Turn aside, O Queen, from the cruel land,
From the greedy shore turn away;
From shame upon shame:--But most shame for those
On their passionate captive who play
With a subtle net, hope enwoven with threat,
Hung out to tempt her astray!

Poor scape-goat of crimes, where,--her part what it may,--
So tortured, so hunted to die,
Foul age of deceit and of hate,--on her head
Least stains of gore-guiltiness lie;
To the hearts of the just her blood from the dust
Not in vain for mercy will cry.

Poor scape-goat of nations and faiths in their strife
So cruel,--and thou so fair!
Poor girl!--so, best, in her misery named,--
Discrown'd of two kingdoms, and bare;
Not first nor last on this one was cast
The burden that others should share.

--When the race is convened at the great assize
And the last long trumpet-call,
If Woman 'gainst Man, in her just appeal,
At the feet of the Judge should fall,
O the cause were secure;--the sentence sure!
--But she will forgive him all!--

O keen heart-hunger for days that were;
Last look at a vanishing shore!
In two short words all bitterness summ'd,
That _Has been_ and _Nevermore_!
Nor with one caress will Mary bless,
Nor look on the babe she bore!

Blow, bitter wind, with a cry of death,
Blow over the western bay:
The sunshine is gone from the desolate girl,
And before is the doomster-day,
And the saw-dust red with the heart's-blood shed
In the shambles of Fotheringay.

Mary of Scotland is one of the five or six figures in our history who
rouse an undying personal interest. Volumes have been and will be
written on her:--yet if we put aside the distorting mists of national and
political and theologic