et and gay Is now a pain to see; The sunniness of
day Is black as night to me; All that was my delight Is hidden from my
sight.

"My heart and eye, indeed, One face, one image know, The which this
mournful weed On my sad face doth show, Dyed with the violet's tone That
is the lover's own.

"Tormented by my ill, I go from place to place, But wander as I will My
woes can nought efface; My most of bad and good I find in solitude.

"But wheresoe'er I stay, In meadow or in copse, Whether at break of
day Or when the twilight drops, My heart goes sighing on, Desiring one
that's gone.

"If sometimes to the skies My weary gaze I lift, His gently shining eyes
Look from the cloudy drift, Or stooping o'er the wave I see him in the
grave.

"Or when my bed I seek, And-sleep begins to steal, Again I hear him
speak, Again his touch I feel; In work or leisure, he Is ever near to
me.

"No other thing I see, However fair displayed, By which my heart will be
A tributary made, Not having the perfection Of that, my lost affection.

"Here make an end, my verse, Of this thy sad lament, Whose burden shall
rehearse Pure love of true intent, Which separation's stress Will never
render less."

"It was then," says Brantorne, "that it was delightful to see her; for
the whiteness of her countenance and of her veil contended together; but
finally the artificial white yielded, and the snow-like pallor of her
face vanquished the other. For it was thus," he adds, "that from the
moment she became a widow, I always saw her with her pale hue, as long
as I had the honour of seeing her in France, and Scotland, where she
had to go in eighteen months' time, to her very great regret, after her
widowhood, to pacify her kingdom, greatly divided by religious troubles.
Alas! she had neither the wish nor the will for it, and I have often
heard her say so, with a fear of this journey like death; for she
preferred a hundred times to dwell in France as a dowager queen, and to
content herself with Touraine and Poitou for her jointure, than to go
and reign over there in her wild country; but her uncles, at least some
of them, not all, advised her, and even urged her to it, and deeply
repented their error."

Mary was obedient, as we have seen, and she began her journey under such
auspices that when she lost sight of land she was like to die. Then it
was that the poetry of her soul found expression in these famous lines:

"Farewell, delightful land of Fra