William Wordsworth

Lament Of Mary Queen Of Scots

SMILE of the Moon!---for I so 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! Bright boon of pitying Heaven!---alas, I may not trust thy placid cheer! Pondering that Time tonight 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, Save those who to my sorrow lend Tears due unto their own. To night the church-tower bells will ring Through these wide realms a festire peal; To the new year a welcoming; A tuneful offering for the weal Of happy millions lulled in deep; While I am forced to watch and weep, By wounds that may not heal. Born all too high, by wedlock raised Still higherÑto 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. 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. 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. A Woman rules my prison's key; A sister Queen, against the bent O£ 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 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 support 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!

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0